


Ascension

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Aftermath of Violence, Anal Play, Banter, Bromances for Sandor, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Don't Judge Me, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Implied/Referenced Incest, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Past Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Past Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Past Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Past Torture, Plot With Porn, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Sansa Stark unlikely hero, Sansa Stark-centric, Sansa has a wolf pack, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, The Long Night, Will NOT Abandon, not Daenerys friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:48:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 133
Words: 409,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23683411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: A story about Sansa's rise, with the support of her loyal pack - most notably one potty-mouthed Sandor Clegane.Post-Quiet Isle SanSan fic with a capable Sansa. Romance, action, mystery, humor, fluff, smut.Fan praise for Ascension:"the amount of 'world-building' here is just phenomenal""I feel like it's everything which is good about Fanfic.""Incredibly fresh and original in this genre.""This fic is beautifully written and I want to take it on as my S8 canon""I am glad for every remaining chapter, since it means spending more time with your version of the characters that were butchered so cruelly in the season we do not name ;)""This chapter is literal perfection. I had to set down my phone to howl with laughter more than once.""this fucking AU is the best fucking take on GOT that I have ever fucking seen. Your characterizations of everyone is so detailed and beautiful that you've forced me to like and miss characters I never used to care about!"
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 480
Kudos: 380





	1. Just my Luck

**Author's Note:**

> Main ship is SanSan. Other romances are secondary. 
> 
> Mix of book and show canon (more show) plus my own creations, including character backstories. Dialogue-intensive: spoken and inner.
> 
> This is at times dark: goes into detail of Sansa’s past abuse. Definite PTSD. Aged up Sansa so she’s ~20 when Sandor is ~31. This means Sansa was ~16 when she first went to KL. Old enough to wed, but since the war quickly broke out and Sansa was not yet the heir to Winterfell, it makes sense that Cersei and Tywin would have kept her as a hostage to keep their options open for a future trade/alliance. 
> 
> Sandor is his rough and gruff self but his edges have been smoothed from his time on the Quiet Isle. He’s more introspective and better at putting his feelings into words, though rarely does because it’s nobody’s bloody business what he’s feeling, right? Sandor is as he is in the books: tall and broad, heavily muscled, black hair and gray eyes. Sansa looks like Sophie Turner b/c she’s gorgeous. She even has Sophie’s eyes, so Tully green replaces Tully blue. SO SUE ME!
> 
> My 1st fanfic. Please go easy on me!
> 
> Credit GRRM.

**Sandor**

As the shackles were placed around his wrists, he couldn’t help but laugh at himself. _How fitting: I finally decide to do something noble with my worthless life and end up in chains for it._ Sandor Clegane had never been a prisoner. Despite all the battles he’d fought, he had never been captured. Near on two decades of fighting all manner of knight, soldier, and sellsword, suffering countless battle injuries, but he’d never fallen captive to an enemy. Now, just one moon into their journey to the Wall, he found his hands and feet in shackles, and a length of rope tied from his wrists to his captor’s saddle. Even his horse, Stranger, who usually bit and kicked at anyone but his master, seemed to surrender to the irony of the situation, letting one of the captors lead him by the reins from atop his own horse.

_Serves me right, should’ve known not to fall in with these fire-worshippers. All that_ repenting _on the Quiet Isle, fat lot of good it did me._

As they trudged through the newly fallen snow, Sandor remained silent. He didn’t ask where they were being taken, didn’t think it much mattered. The group of eight men who had surrounded them just minutes ago wore no sigils but were too organized to be random thieves. Sandor had been ready to fight, even outnumbered as they were. He knew he and Dondarrion were good for killing three apiece; with a little luck Thoros could handle the other two. Regardless, better to die with a sword in his hand than a noose around his neck. But before he could raise his sword his two companions lowered theirs. _Fucking nances._ It hadn’t taken long for the apparent leader of the group to step down from his horse and approach the threesome. Matter-of-factly, he stated, _“You’re the Hound”._ Sandor simply replied, “ _Was.”_ The man didn’t question further but ordered three of his men to restrain the prisoners while the others stood at the ready with their swords.

They continued walking for some time before Beric Donarrion addressed the commander, with his usual charm and eloquence, as if they weren’t being dragged along to their imminent demise. “Good Ser, might I ask where you’re taking us?” After a moment’s hesitation the man replied curtly: “Winterfell.”

_Fuck._ Winterfell was held by the Boltons, men who flayed their enemies alive just for the fun of it. He immediately began trying to calculate the distance between here and Winterfell. Though he did not know these lands well, he estimated they were at least two days away at their current pace. _Two days to find a way out of these chains, or at least strangle myself with them._

Upon learning of their destination his companions seemed to share his unease. Thoros paled, and Beric lost his train of thought, eventually continuing with far less poise in his voice. “I do hope we’ll be given a chance to plead our case. You see, we are traveling to the Wall to pledge our aid to the Night’s Watch. I understand they need men now more than ever. Surely your Lord knows the importance of keeping the Wall well-manned.” At this several of the men laughed and turned atop their horses to stare at Beric. One of them – a squat man with a crooked nose – replied, “I’ll give you this much: that’s one of the more _creative_ stories we’ve heard so far!” Another added, “Don’t worry, our _Lord_ will judge you fairly.” The men laughed again.

Clearly Sandor’s little group had been mistaken for some roving thieves or rapers. Not a surprise, really. Sandor learned that his reputation hadn’t improved during his time on the Quiet Isle, through no fault of his. He was widely believed to be responsible for atrocities committed at Saltpans many moons ago. Though Beric and Thoros believed Sandor’s claims of innocence in that regard, a disgraced night and drunken priest could do little to help restore his good name. _There’s a joke. No one ever thought a kind thing about the Lannister dog. No one except…_ her. _The little bird, always chirping, always trying to find the good in me even when I repeatedly told her she was looking in the wrong place._

At her memory, Sandor felt his chest clench. Thinking about her always caused that reaction. He contemplated this during many sleepless nights on the Quiet Isle, even spoke to Elder Brother about it. _“Why should this woman, this_ girl _, have such an affect on me? I barely knew her. I barely spoke to her. She was just an empty-headed little girl, convinced some handsome_ Knight _would come save her, when she should have been learning how to save herself, learning how to be strong.”_

But he knew that wasn’t entirely true; the girl _did_ have a certain kind of strength. Not the strength of her rabid wolf of a sister, but a strength nonetheless: the strength to _endure_ ; the strength to _survive._ And not the way Sandor survived – by becoming a vicious warrior – but while retaining that innocence and sweetness that made her so singular. That sweetness only seemed to bring out the worst in men, though. Some men wanted to possess it, to take her sweetness whether she offered it or not. Others wanted to destroy it, yank it out root and stem. Sandor thought himself the former, and the late _King_ Joffrey Baratheon the latter.

It had been the Elder Brother’s response to Sandor’s questions that silenced him. _“Perhaps, the reason she affected you so strongly, is because she made_ you _want to be that Knight for her.”_ Sandor stormed out and never spoke of the little bird to him – or anyone – again. He thought of her often, but every time her image came to mind, he threw himself into his work: he chopped more wood than they could use in _three_ winters, dug graves for corpses that wouldn’t wash up for weeks. Absent any work to do, he’d ride Stranger hard and far – as far as he could on such a small plot of land. He’d go to the shore and look for bodies to drag back to the graveyard. He’d will away any thoughts of her red hair, her milky white skin, her green eyes that seemed to be able to see right through his façade. It was no use thinking of Sansa Stark. The last he’d heard she’d been married to the Imp after being cast aside by Joffrey for that pug-nosed Tyrell bitch. Joffrey was later poisoned at his own wedding, and both the Imp and Sansa had conveniently disappeared without a trace.

No, it was no use thinking of her. She was either far, far away – living in the free cities with the Imp as her husband – or dead: dead like all the other innocents of the world, while monsters like Sandor Clegane survived against all odds.

By the time Sandor returned his attention to the sound of the horses plodding along the wet forest floor, the sun was low in the sky. Their solemn-faced captors stopped to make camp, but not before meticulously chaining Beric, Thoros, and Sandor to three separate trees. _Well, they’re not stupid, I’ll give them that much._ It seemed escape would not be an option...


	2. Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and his companions arrive at Winterfell - where things are not as expected

**Sandor**

Sandor woke to the feeling of a boot in his thigh – his bad thigh. He was untied from the tree and made to stand next to his companions. They were given the opportunity to tend to their bodily needs, then each given a few sips of water and a few bites of hard cheese before their march resumed. Sandor’s leg ached terribly. After his months-long recuperation, he’d only found relief by doing the stretches Elder Brother had taught him. By doing those exercises every morning and night his leg was almost good as new. Almost.

The next two days and three nights were much the same as the first. Beric stopped probing for details once his questions went unanswered. Even their captors spoke very little to one another, instead staying alert by constantly scanning their surroundings. Their restlessness made Sandor uncomfortable. Clearly, they were expecting an attack, which meant there _had_ been recent attacks. Though he did not look forward to their impending arrival at Winterfell, he had some hope that Lord Bolton would see fit to send them to the Wall rather than execute them. He was, after all, Warden of the North, last Sandor heard, and thus was duty-bound to assist the Night’s Watch when possible. But if this group of able-bodied, well-armed Bolton men feared someone – or something – in these woods, that did not bode well for Sandor’s group. In the event of an attack he hoped the Bolton men would have the sense to untie their three captives and give them each at least a dagger to help with the fight.

Yet whatever threat the men were looking for never came, and on the third day, just after sunrise, they spotted the walls of Winterfell on the horizon. Even from this distance Sandor could see the castle was much changed. Parts of the exterior wall appeared damaged, as well as the towers. The grounds surrounding the fortress were rutted mud and puddles of ice where once they had been lush, green grass. Sandor had seen Winterfell only once before today, and that had been in the Summer. Perhaps the grounds always looked this way in winter, but something told Sandor that such was not the case, particularly this early in winter.

As they drew closer to the gates Sandor saw something that made his heart stop. Atop the battlements swayed not the black and red banners of House Bolton, but the gray direwolf of House Stark. Beric and Thoros must have noticed the same, as all three stared at each other with gaping mouths.

As they passed through the gates, they immediately encountered a frenzy of activity. Men and boys carrying lumber, horses and mules pulling carts full of stone. Women and girls sloshing through the muddy courtyard with bushels of food, buckets of water, and baskets of linens. The sound of hammering and the shouts of men at work created a cacophony of noise that was almost painful after days of silent travel. Before Sandor could think to do the same, Beric had drawn the attention of a skinny young boy and asked him which Stark held Winterfell. The boy’s eyes grew wide and darted to the commander, looking for permission to answer. Receiving none, he quickly turned and ran in the opposite direction, as if afraid of the captors, despite their obvious inability to cause harm, or perhaps afraid of the commander himself.

The men dismounted and a few scrawny stable hands led away their horses. Half the men stood guard, while the commander headed toward the main hall. The remainder set off toward the kitchens.

Sandor’s mind raced. Which Stark could have reclaimed Winterfell? Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn were dead at the hands of the Joffrey Baratheon and Walder Frey, respectively. The Young Wolf, Robb Stark, was also slain by the Freys. Sandor heard that the younger boys – Bran and Rickon – were both killed and burned by the turn cloak Theon Greyjoy. That left only the bastard Jon Snow and the daughters, Arya and Sansa. The obvious answer was Jon Snow. _Perhaps the Night’s Watch gave him leave to reclaim his homeland?_ Northerners would likely follow a bastard son before a trueborn daughter, particularly in times of war. But Arya was also alive, at least as of two years ago. Perhaps that big bitch, Brienne of Tarth, led Arya safely back north and the loyal Stark bannerman rallied to her cause. She was a capable fighter, after all – Northmen would respect that.

Sandor did not let himself hope that the little bird held Winterfell. After all, it seemed the least probable. She was a Lannister now, not a Stark. If she and the Imp had fled north instead of across the sea as everyone suspected, then there’d be Lannister lions not Stark direwolves decorating the battlements. And if somehow the Imp was gone or dead, would Northmen rally behind someone as meek as the little bird? Many men would seek her hand, of that Sandor was certain, but would her beauty be enough to cause some houses to take up arms against the fearsome Boltons? Sandor couldn’t imagine that happening and didn’t allow himself to think on it any further. No, he was about to be brought before Jon Snow, for whom Sandor’s affiliation with the Lannisters was enough to cost him his head, even if his companions would be spared. Or the little she-wolf who left him for dead: she wouldn’t hesitate to remove his ugly head, especially after the cruel words he spat at her while begging for the gift of mercy.

The three men stood in the bustling courtyard, waiting to learn of their fates.

“You didn’t know?” Sandor directed at Beric and Thoros, who shook their heads. “I’ve been living on a bloody island for two years – how could you not know?”

“We’ve been keeping our heads down, avoiding towns and people. More foe than friend out there – you know as well as anyone,” Beric answered, not the least bit ashamed by his ignorance of the affairs of the North’s largest House.

Sandor said no more. He just wanted it over with. He was tired, his body ached, and he was ready to accept whatever punishment the Stark lord or lady would mete out. Gods knew he deserved it, if not for present actions than for countless past sins.

It was nearly noon before they were led into the Great Hall where, apparently, court would be held. Dozens of smallfolk and guards lined the walls, but the large wooden table at the front of the room was vacant. Sandor’s group was shoved in near the back of the room. Next to them was a shabby group of six men, also in chains. Everyone else in the room appeared to be there of their own choice – petitioners, observers. Sandor faced the front of the room but kept his head bowed; he had already received many glances as he stood in the courtyard, and it was growing tiresome. He had gone too long without being leered at that way and was no longer accustomed to it.

After some minutes passed the large doors were swung open by two guards. Two sets of footsteps were heard, but Sandor could not force himself to look up. It wasn’t until he heard Beric mutter “Bugger me” beneath his breath that Sandor finally worked up the courage to fix his eyes upon the Stark child that would be his judge, jury, and likely his executioner. But all he could see was the back of a tall, skinny man, with straggly ash blond hair down to his neck. The man wore all black, with a sword on his hip. As Sandor craned his neck to see him, he finally caught a glimpse of something that made his blood run cold: a thick braid of fiery auburn hair.


	3. Judgment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor, Beric, and Thoros learn their fate

**Sandor**

Sandor was frozen to the spot at the sight of the little bird – _his_ little bird. He quickly lowered his head and tried to make himself as small as possible – not an easy task. Thoros and Beric looked at him curiously but said nothing. One by one petitioners were brought forward with complaints and requests, but Sandor heard none of the words that were spoken – not even the little bird’s responses. Once again, he found his mind racing, trying to determine how Sansa Stark had come to be the Lady of Winterfell. There was no lord sitting beside her, so it couldn’t have been through a marriage alliance. The Imp was also nowhere to be seen, not that that was a surprise.

Sandor’s vision was blurry, and he felt as if his head were under water, all sounds muffled and distant. He tried to force himself back to the present, but another thought consumed him: _How will the little bird react when she sees me?_ The last time she saw him he was drunk, covered in other men’s blood and his own vomit, and had held her at knife point demanding a song. Innocent thing that she was, she sang a sweet song for him, and even stroked his cheek. Sure, he hadn’t hurt her as he could have, hadn’t taken her against her will, though Gods know he was tempted, but was that enough for her to forgive his behavior? What about the cruel way he spoke to her while she was Joffrey’s _betrothed?_ In her memory, would she see him as the same as her other tormentors – just as bad as those fuckers Trant and Blount? Sandor had never raised a hand to strike her as they did, but he’d stood by and let it happen.

Once again, he willed his mind to focus on what was taking place here in the great hall of Winterfell. The last of the petitioners, a man with a curved back appearing to be in his sixties, was brought before Sansa and promptly kneeled even though he was not told to. For the first time all morning, Sandor listened to the proceedings.

“Your grace, my name is Jon Creery…”

_Your grace?_

“…For years I served your vassal house - Karhold. When Lord Karstark answered your brother’s call to arms, I continued serving, doing as much as I could even beyond my area of employ, as the younger men all went to fight the war. I understand Lord Karstark later betrayed your brother and deserted him before the Red- before your brother and his men were slain by the despicable Freys and Boltons. I continued to serve House Karhold even though I felt loyal to the Stark name, but there were no Starks to be loyal to, your grace. Now, House Karhold no longer has need of my services, and I can no longer feed my family – my wife and daughter. My son was killed in the war. I only wish to pledge myself to your House. I come seeking only work. My daughter can work too, your grace, only my wife is unwell. But perhaps she could be of service in some way once she recovers. My daughter knows how to cook, or she could be a washerwoman. I beg you, your grace, I’m not looking for charity, only I come here knowing that Winterfell needs workers and…”

“I’ve heard enough...” Sansa’s voice was clear but emotionless, and it sent a chill down Sandor’s spine. She continued, “I’m sorry for the loss of your son, and for the ill health of your wife. You are correct that Winterfell is in need of able-bodied men and women to help with the rebuilding, and of course the running of the household. May I ask, what was your trade?”

“Kennel master, your grace.”

“I’m afraid we are not in need of a kennel master. You mentioned you’d been handling other responsibilities during the war?”

“Yes, your grace! I helped with the farming, as well as general repairs of the household. I know I’m not as _able-bodied_ as many who pledge their service to you, but what I lack in physical ability I make up for in knowledge. You see, your grace, my parents were farmers. I grew up on the farm before leaving to apprentice for my uncle, who was the kennel master at Karhold…”

Sansa interrupted him again, continuing to speak without inflection, though her words were kind. “Lord Creery, it sounds as if Winterfell could greatly benefit from your knowledge and your labor, particularly in farming. I’d ask you to report to the Glass Gardens as soon as you’ve settled. Our steward, Mr. Sedgwell, will assist in finding lodging for your family. I also suggest you put in a request for some of Maester Damon’s time for your wife, assuming she hasn’t already been treated by a maester.”

The old man stood and responded with obvious gratitude and excitement in his voice, “Many thanks, your grace. You continue to honor your family’s legacy. My family will serve House Stark most loyally. My thanks, again, your grace.”

_Same naïve little bird… I see she hasn’t learned anything, accepting a man who served her enemy into her service. Ah well, he doesn’t look like much of a threat, but who else is she letting through the gates?_

Creery left, but Sandor noted that most of the other petitioners had remained in the room, now spectators of the judgment that was about to be passed on the prisoners, which included him. It did not ease his mind to know there would be an audience.

The group of men beside him were called before Lady Sansa. _Or is it Queen Sansa?_ The men did not speak, instead a guard in leather armor addressed her. “Your grace, these are the men that were arrested yesterday after attacking one of our supply wagons from White Harbor. As you know, they stole an entire wagon and killed two of our guards in the process. They were apprehended by our men while they were selling the stolen wares in a nearby village.”

Sansa’s eyes did not leave the man speaking to her, “Have they said anything of their innocence, or guilt?”

“They’ve said nothing, your grace.”

Sansa finally addressed the group of men in chains, “You stand charged of theft and murder. Do you deny these crimes?” After a brief pause, one of the men snarled, “We know our fate, and we accept it. I’m not about to kneel to some wolf bitch, and I won’t beg to take the black, ‘cause I’d rather die here quick than freeze my balls off in that frozen wasteland ruled by your _bastard_ brother. I speak for my men: do what you must, _Ice Queen_.” He spit onto the floor in front of him.

Sansa’s face remained still. If the insults affected her, she showed no sign of it, and instead calmly gave her verdict. “Crimes of murder and theft against House Stark are punishable by death. I hereby sentence you to die.” Turning to her guards, she continued, “Return them to their cells. They’ll be executed at noon on the morrow along with the others.”

_The girl’s not so weak, after all. Suppose that doesn’t bode well for me._

The men were promptly removed from the hall, leaving only the petitioners and Sandor’s threesome. At the same time, a maester approached Sansa, who turned to hear what he whispered into her ear.

Sandor, Beric, and Thoros were brought before the high table and made to kneel. The commander who had caught them in the woods just days before now stood beside them, patiently waiting for his queen’s attention to turn to him. When it did, Sansa’s eyes fell immediately on Sandor, and for the briefest of moments a look of shock replaced the mask of indifference she’d been wearing all morning. The look faded as quickly as it appeared, though she continued to stare at Sandor. Under her icy gaze he felt as if all his scars were on fire. The left side of his face, his leg that had been broken at Saltpans, his arm that had been burned – every single scar big and small was aflame under her stare, as if her eyes were able to see through his clothing and were scanning for weakness.

It felt like an eternity had passed without her or the guard saying anything, before the latter finally spoke. “Your grace, we apprehended these men in the woods three days past. We recognize the big one as the Lannister Hound, and we know his presence nearby can mean nothing good for House Stark. We immediately took them into custody. They have said nothing except that they were heading to the Wall to enlist in the Night’s Watch.”

Before Sansa could respond Beric interjected, “That’s not _quite_ accurate, your grace…” Her eyes slowly shifted from Sandor to Beric. “We indeed said we are _traveling_ to the Wall, though we don’t plan on _enlisting_ with the Watch, per se. I am a follower of the Lord of Light, and he has shown me a great threat that is bearing down from the far North. We aim to help in any way we can, but don’t plan on taking the black. My large friend here, for one, doesn’t believe in vows, and I myself…”

“Silence.” Sansa finally stated, with quiet authority that immediately shut Beric’s mouth. She slowly rose, walked around the table, and stood just three feet in front of Sandor, never taking her eyes off of him, though he lowered his head under the weight of her gaze. “Unchain him”, she said. He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Two guards hesitated only a moment to exchange glances before complying with their queen’s command. Sandor took note of the fact that they did not question her, despite their obvious concern. Sandor immediately rubbed his wrists where the shackles had chafed his skin and looked up to see the little bird, now glaring at Beric.

“You are Ser Beric Dondarrion. You were the man my father, Lord Eddard Stark, ordered to bring to justice Ser Gregor Clegane, a task at which you distinctly failed. If rumors are true, you later fell in with the Brotherhood without Banners.”

Beric waited before replying, lest he interrupt this woman who held their fate in her delicate hands. “Yes, your grace, fell in and then fell _out_ , when their ways became a bit too extreme for my taste. I only ever wished to serve the innocent, a purpose I continue to aspire to, and…”

“You should learn to serve the innocent more quietly, Ser.” She replied. The crowd chuckled, but Sansa remained expressionless, before turning to look upon Thoros. He eventually realized she was waiting for him to speak. “Your grace, my name is Thoros of Myr. I am a humble servant of the Lord of Light. Ser Beric is my companion, and like him, I have vowed to fight on the side of the innocent, and in this case, that’s the side of the _living_.”

Sansa was silent for some moments before turning again to the guards. “You may unchain these two men, as well. They are no threat to us.” She then returned to her seat behind the table and folded her hands in a gesture of contemplation. No one spoke, and in the minute that followed Sandor finally took in more of his surroundings. The skinny blond man who had trailed Sansa as she entered the hall stood behind her. His face bore many faint scars, and his eyes darted around constantly, giving him a fearful look even though he stood straight and tall. He wore plain armor of black, boiled leather, adorned only by a small direwolf sigil embroidered on the left breast.

Allowing his eyes to fall on Sansa, Sandor noted that her hair was pulled into a simple northern braid that extended down to her waist. She wore a black dress, the collar of which covered most of her neck. The dress appeared to be fashioned out of leather fish scales, layered to form a sort of armored bodice over her torso. The shoulders were lightly padded, giving her narrow frame a more impressive form. Under the table Sandor could see the dress was long in the back but shorter in the front, revealing legs clad in black leather breaches tucked into black riding boots that came up to her knees. A metal chain hung around her neck and through a metal loop. At the end of the chain was a key which hung just below her ribs. As she once again rose to stand, Sandor noted that the chain didn’t end there. Another, longer length of it was connected to a small dagger which swung at her right hip as she once again walked to the front of the table and addressed her prisoners. Sandor looked up to her eyes and was surprised to see they were not pointed at anyone in particular but instead glazed over as if she was lost in thought, or perhaps summoning some distant memory.

Finally, her eyes returned to the group kneeling before her, and she spoke. “I believe your story that you were only passing through our lands on your way to the Wall. My brother, Lord Commander Snow, is in dire need of skilled fighters such as yourselves.” She then turned to Sandor. “I understand the motives of your companions, and pardon my assumption, but I don’t see you as the type of man who joins the Night’s Watch, officially or otherwise. Might I ask what _your_ motive is?”

Sandor delayed only a moment before shrugging, “Got nowhere better to be.” After a prod in the back from one of the guards, Sandor added “…your grace.”

Sansa continued, ignoring the slight, if she even saw it as one. “Sandor Clegane, you were a… _friend_ to me – at a time and place where I had no other friends. In light of this, you and your companions are welcome to rest at Winterfell for two nights before continuing on your way to the Wall. Food is being rationed here, but we can spare a week’s worth of provisions to help you on your journey. Your horses will also be returned to you, though you may exchange them for rested mounts, if necessary.”

The three men looked at each other in shock for the second time that day before Beric began to speak his thanks. Sansa interrupted him coolly. “I’m not finished, Ser… I’d be remiss in not offering you a second option. Lord Commander Snow is not the only person in need of new volunteers. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Winterfell needs many repairs to our buildings and reinforcements for our guard and our hunting parties. Any man who can wield either hammer, sword, or bow is welcome to stay here, assuming they abide by our simple laws. We cannot offer you coin, but shelter, meat, and mead will be provided as long as you serve House Stark. If any of you wishes to stay on here, temporarily or permanently, you need only speak to our steward, Lord Sedgwell. He will also see to your accommodations for the next two days, should that be your choice.” At this the crowd mumbled, but quickly silenced themselves when Sansa snapped her head up to look upon them.

Thoros was the first to speak, “Out of curiosity, your grace, what might your ‘simple laws’ be?”

“No murder, no rape, no theft. And it should go without saying, but any treason or plotting against House Stark or its allies will not be tolerated. These four crimes are punishable by death, and you should know we don’t bother with trials in the north unless there is strong case for the accused’s innocence.”

Many in the crowd smiled and nodded at this. Sandor was unnerved by their apparent comfort with the notion of execution without trial, but, remembering that most trials in King’s Landings were merely mummer’s farces, he couldn’t disagree with Sansa’s efficiency. It would appear his little bird had no time for trials, she had a kingdom to rule and a castle to repair.

“As I said, the choice is yours, and I don’t need an answer now. Stay or go, but if you go, know that you leave here as free men only so long as you head straight to the Wall. If my brother doesn’t notify me of your arrival in a moon’s turn, you’ll be considered fugitives of Winterfell, with orders to kill on sight.”

Beric looked at his companions before speaking. “Your terms are quite generous in both options, your grace. You will not regret your decision. You have my thanks.”

“You can thank your quiet friend, Ser Beric. As I said, I owed him a debt from many years ago...” She looked to Sandor before finishing “…and I consider that debt to now be paid in full.”

Without another glance she walked out of the hall, followed closely by her sworn shield, who to Sandor appeared more a lost puppy than a trained knight. The guards pulled the three men to stand, and after a quiet but stern threat from the commander, they too vacated the hall. The petitioners slowly filed out, most casting either angry, fearful, or suspicious glances at the threesome. Soon they found themselves alone in the Hall, standing with dumbfounded expressions plastered to their faces. It was Sandor who finally broke the silence, “Well bugger me sideways.”


	4. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has many questions

**Sandor**

After waiting for their turn to meet with the steward, Sandor left his friends to walk the grounds, under the guise of surveying the damage to Winterfell, though his real motive was to give himself time to contemplate the afternoon’s events.

He could scarcely decide what to ponder first. How Sansa Stark made her way to the North? How she was able to reclaim Winterfell? How she became not just the _Lady_ of Winterfell, but apparently the Queen in the bloody North? What happened to the Boltons? His mind whirled with questions, but one thing was clear: _I need wine._

He stopped a dirty boy who was carting buckets of stone across the courtyard. “Ay, boy, where does a man find drink around here?”

“The well’s over there…” The boy pointed.

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Not water boy, wine! Where can I find wine?”

“The kitchens, ser, where else?”

_Little wise ass._ Sandor made his way to the kitchens. A young girl in the middle of cutting potatoes looked up at him impatiently before noticing his scars, “C-can I help you, m’lord?”

“Wine”, he snarled, before tossing her one of the wooden coins the steward had given him. He had a few of the larger discs, each of which could be traded for one wineskin. _Like one will be enough._ The smaller discs he was given several of, each one was good for a meal. As he exited the kitchens, wine in hand, he saw Sansa approaching. She immediately looked down at the wineskin in his hands before meeting his eyes, though she didn’t stop talking to the woman who walked beside her.

_Great, first time she’s seen me in years, and she’ll think I’m still a bloody drunk, even though I haven’t had a drop of wine or ale in over two years!_

Sandor thought about stopping her, speaking his thanks which he failed to do in the hall earlier, but he found himself at a loss for words. He had little opportunity, as she disappeared into the kitchens, and he could barely make out her voice giving commands to the workers.

_Fuck it, what do I care what she thinks of me? In two days I’ll be off to the bloody Wall with the fire-worshipers. I’ll say my thanks before then, and I’ll be on my way._

At nightfall he managed to find Beric and Thoros and the three made their way to the large dining hall, where they ate a simple but filling meal of vegetable stew and brown bread. After scarfing down their food in silence, Thoros finally spoke quietly, “Either of you get a strange feeling here?” Sandor looked up in surprise at his question. Nothing about Winterfell seemed strange, though admittedly he’d spent the entire afternoon wandering around, lost in his own wine-addled thoughts. “What do you mean?”

“Well I spoke to some men, tried asking about what’s been going on here in Winterfell, and here in the North, but nobody has anything to say. I even found some men taking a break from repairing the tower, they were in their cups, and you know how wine makes for loose lips, but even they clammed up when I started asking about recent events.”

Beric nodded, “I too tried speaking to some particularly _friendly_ young ladies.” He grinned smugly, “They were eager to spend their time chatting with a handsome knight but got less talkative when I started asking about their _Queen_. They only told me that Lady Stark and her most loyal bannermae managed to oust the Boltons, with some help from – get this – _Wildlings_ … All I know is the Boltons are all but wiped out, and Wildlings now hold the Dreadfort. Never thought I’d speak those words,” he shook his head.

“Never thought I’d _hear_ those words”, Thoros agreed.

_So the little bird managed to rally her father’s bannermen, and convince the Night’s Watch to let Wildlings through the gates of the Wall, and then convince the bannermen to allow her to reward the Dreadfort to said Wildlings? Oh and defeat the Boltons along the way? _These details only generated more questions. As they made their way to the men’s barracks, Sandor knew he was about to have a sleepless night.

Sure enough, after hours of tossing and turning and listening to the snoring of dozens of men, Sandor threw off his wool blanket and rose. He wrapped his tattered cloak about his shoulders and crept out of the barracks with no destination in mind. He needed to think, though he’d been thinking for the past twelve hours and had nothing to show for it. Perhaps at this hour he’d find some rowdy men or women well into their cups who he could pry for information.

As he walked out into the chilly night air though, he found quite the opposite. The entire castle was seemingly asleep. He thought about wandering to the stables to take Stranger for a ride but didn’t want to risk waking anyone. Instead he began walking toward the Godswood. He remembered how the little bird used to spend hours in the Godswood of the Red Keep. She liked to pray, but probably went there because it was the only place in the whole bloody city where she could get some peace, where Joffrey and his _Kingsguard_ wouldn’t bother her. Sandor walked along a row of hedges that bordered the Godswood when he heard footsteps crunching in the snow on the other side. He froze and leaned close to the branches, hoping to be out of sight.

The figure who appeared was covered in a cloak and hood, but he’d know that walk anywhere: it was the little bird. When she was enough of a distance away, Sandor carefully followed her, stepping as lightly as he could on the new fallen snow. She walked to the Glass Gardens and opened the door to step inside. Sandor dared not follow and instead stood in the shadow of a large maple tree. He was shivering by the time she emerged. He waited again before following her. He was sure at this late hour she’d finally return to the main keep and her chambers, but as he followed, he realized she was walking through the lichyard, headed toward the crypts of Winterfell.

By now Sandor was downright freezing, but he stood out of sight once again, counting the minutes the little bird remained inside the crypts. After more than ten minutes had passed, he could no longer stand the cold and headed back to the barracks where he stumbled onto his pallet and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	5. Counsel of Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reflects.

**Sansa**

The long nights brought no comfort or rest for Sansa. She knew by now the best way to ward off the memories that haunted her was to keep herself distracted. During the day that was easy – there was much to oversee in rebuilding and running the castle, seeing to the finances, and speaking with the smallfolk to address their needs. Sansa quickly learned to retain some of her chores for nightfall, so she’d have something to busy her mind. Usually that meant reading and responding to any correspondence that had arrived by raven or messenger that day. A fair number of these letters were politely worded betrothal requests from northern lords and ladies on behalf of themselves or their heirs. Sansa had made it clear that, should she ever marry again, it would be a marriage of _her_ choosing, but that didn’t stop the requests for her hand. Reading those letters always tied her stomach into a knot, but she knew there was no way to stop them, and as long as the lords accepted her polite but firm refusals, she could not fault them for trying.

On this night however, her mind couldn’t focus on her task. Her eyes read the same parchment three times, but her mind did not grasp any of its meaning. She could only think of _him._ She had believed him dead; Lady Brienne had told her as much when she encountered her, Ser Jaime, and Podrick Payne on her and Theon’s journey to Castle Black nearly a year past. Brienne said she had found Arya and the Hound just east of Harrenhal, about a year and a half prior to finding Sansa and Theon. She had told Arya about the vow she made to Lady Catelyn, but Arya said nothing. Instead, the Hound drew his sword when it was clear that Brienne would not leave without the girl. They fought fiercely by sword then fist, but ultimately Brienne gained the advantage, and pushed the Hound over a cliff. No man could survive the fall, she had told Sansa, not to mention the injuries he’d sustained in the fight. Brienne herself incurred multiple injuries, though none lethal. Podrick had been unsuccessful in catching Arya, and with no idea which direction she might head, they halted their pursuit, and resigned to rest so Brienne could recover.

At the time, Sansa was gladdened to hear that Arya was alive, or at least had been at the time of the fight, but she could not shake her gloom upon learning of the Hound’s death. The thought of Sandor dying alone brought tears to her eyes, but she would not let her companions see her woe. She swallowed her sorrow, and instead focused on the task at hand: reach Castle Black before any Bolton men could catch up with them. Brienne and Jaime had sworn their swords to Sansa immediately upon meeting her, both telling her about their time with Sansa’s mother, Lady Catelyn, and the vows they had separately sworn to find and protect Catelyn’s daughters. Sansa knew little of Ser Jaime but found he and Brienne to both seem credible. Moreover, she was desperate for any help that they could offer. Her and Theon’s time of captivity and abuse at Ramsay’s hands had left them in weakened states, and Sansa was constantly sick, suffering the effects of withdrawal as her body was suddenly without the Milk of the Poppy that Winterfell’s maester had administered to her every morning. That had been the only relief she had during her time as _Lady Bolton._ Ramsay had permitted her one dose every morning, not for Sansa’s comfort, but so that she would sleep during the day and be even more aware of every pain he inflicted upon her at night.

So she had accepted Jaime and Brienne’s pledges, and the group of five continued their journey to Castle Black. During the remaining weeks of travel, Sansa tried not to think of the Hound, but failed. She thought back to her time in the Red Keep, when he had been the only member of the Kingsguard to refrain from beating her. He was never kind, but he was also never cruel, and he spoke to her honestly even if harshly. She had thought of him often even after he fled the night of the Battle of the Blackwater. He had offered her a way out, but she was too afraid to accept it. She knew Joffrey would not stop until he found her, and then both she and Sandor would be punished gravely. She thought of him during her time in the Vale and the Eyrie with Petyr Baelish, and later during her captivity in Winterfell. She sometimes allowed herself a fantasy – that he would appear some night, strong as ever, and offer to once again spirit her away from her tormentors. These fantasies always ended the same way: with Sansa taking his offered arm and leaving in the dark of night.

Sansa’s mind slowly drifted back to the present, to the desk in her solar. She put down the parchment she had been gripping, knowing that her effort at concentration was futile. Still wearing her dress and boots, she donned her warmest hooded cloak and ventured through the sleeping castle and courtyard. She began walking the route she had walked so many sleepless nights in the past months, starting in the Godswood, where she prayed for peace, for strength, and for the safe return of her sister Arya and brothers Bran and Rickon – who Theon had eventually confessed he had not murdered during his sacking of Winterfell. She also prayed for her brother Jon and the men of the Night’s Watch, who may soon be facing the greatest threat seen in thousands of years.

Shivering in the cold, she continued to her next stop: the Glass Gardens. A good portion of them had been destroyed during the Greyjoy and Bolton turns occupying Winterfell, but much had survived or been subsequently restored. In the warmth of the gardens Sansa walked among the rows of vegetables and herbs. She gently stroked the delicate leaves of some of the young plants and allowed memories of a time long past to flood her mind: she and her lady mother used to walk the gardens together. Catelyn had always said she found peace there, surrounded by so many living things. At the time, Sansa hadn’t fully appreciated her mother’s words, but now she did. Now she knew there are so few places in this world where life is allowed to thrive in harmony, undisturbed by the wars of men.

Once she felt adequately warmed, Sansa ventured out of the gardens and proceeded to the final stop on her all too familiar route: the crypts of Winterfell. She took a torch from the wall and walked slowly until she stood in front of the statue of her father, Lord Eddard Stark. For some moments she just stood there, collecting her thoughts. In the past months, Sansa found very few people she could speak to, or at least few that she trusted. Theon would listen, of course, but offered little counsel in response. Maester Damon was wise, but Sansa did not trust him, and would never confide her innermost thoughts and fears to him. So, instead, she sought counsel from ghosts.

And so, as she’d done so many times before, Sansa began recounting the events of the day, starting with the mundane: “Hello, Father. Today was a day much like other days. We had many petitioners, but it seems the smallfolk are in better sorts than they were just a few months ago. I pray it lasts, we’ll need unity and peace to survive the winter.”

She continued, “I had a raven from Jon yesterday. He is well, though sullen as always.” At the image of her brooding brother, Sansa felt a small smirk curl her lips. “He has frequent communication with the Targaryen girl. I believe I already told you that she agreed to mine dragonglass so that the Night’s Watch can forge weapons. I doubt she truly believes him about the threat in the far north, but she is hoping to endear herself with us Northerners. A wise choice, I should say, though I have little time to think about her cause…”

Sansa paused for a moment before continuing. She bowed her head, feeling somewhat ashamed by the words that she was about to speak.

“I sentenced six men to death today, in addition to three yesterday. None asked to take the black, and I’m not sure I would have permitted it, even knowing how badly Jon needs men. The men were some that have attacked our supply wagons, killing some of our guards who tried to fight them off before surrendering. I know these men must be punished; I know that in times like these such acts cannot be tolerated… but I can’t help but feel some… _pity_. I know that only desperation drives men to commit such crimes. I’ve opened up Winterfell to shelter and feed any who are willing to work, but men like these would clearly rather steal and face death than pledge themselves to me. Will it always be this way, father? Will men like that ever swear fealty to a woman? I’m not even _asking_ their fealty, not truly, I only ask for their labor and to abide by our laws…” Sansa sighed deeply, “I’m sure you would know what to do. There must be some words or _action_ that can convince these men that my only desire is to see the North thrive!”

Sansa felt her blood rising, so she calmed herself, smoothing back loose hairs that hung around her face, “I suppose it matters not. No Lord or King has the complete loyalty of his people. And if he does it won’t last forever. I know I shouldn’t waste a moment thinking on men like this, not when there is so much that needs doing. I shall try not to let it trouble me so. Either way, I have my duty, and I’ll carry it out at noon…”

She paused and closed her eyes for several minutes before continuing, “Perhaps I’ll see you again tomorrow night, father. I know you’d tell me I should try to sleep, that it isn’t healthy to keep the hours I keep. I’ve tried many times, but I’ll try again, because I know it would please you and mother to see me take care of myself.” After another brief pause Sansa felt ready to say goodnight. “The morning will be upon me soon; I shall retire now. Until next time father, know that you are often in my thoughts.”

Sansa began to walk toward the entrance before stopping. She did not turn back to face her father’s statue but spoke over her shoulder the words she’d been withholding: “One other thing, father. We received some unexpected visitors today. You remember Ser Beric Dondarrion? I know you respected him. He seems well enough, though has lost an eye somewhere along his journeys. He was accompanied by a Thoros of Myr, perhaps you knew him as well. They were headed to the Wall, allegedly, to lend their swords to the Night’s Watch. They weren’t alone, though. … The _Hound_ was with them. I know what you’re thinking – I should have killed him on sight, he can’t be trusted, he’s loyal to the Lannisters… Only I don’t believe that. He tried to help me once, and apparently, he helped Arya as well, though mayhap he just saw us as valuable hostages. Either way, he never harmed me, and I don’t believe he harmed Arya. I’ve given the three of them the freedom to stay here and work or continue to Castle Black. I know you’d think that mercy a mistake, maybe it will prove to be, and then you can tell me you told me so.” A faint smile once again traced Sansa’s face. “I confess though, some part of me hopes they will stay. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I feel I can trust him – the Hound that is. I’m not sure about his companions, but I trust them enough to believe they won’t do anything to threaten Winterfell… Well, that was all I wanted to tell you. I hope you’re not too disappointed in me father. I once again bid you goodnight.”

With that, Sansa returned to the entrance of the crypt, replaced the torch, and proceeded to her bed chamber. She estimated there to be another hour before dawn as she shed off her boots, doublet, and leather skirt. She unlaced and pulled off her breeches, standing only in her bodice and smallclothes. She retrieved her long-sleeve, full-length sleeping gown from her wardrobe, and laid it upon the furs on her bed. But tonight, instead of quickly removing the rest of her under-garments and pulling on her gown, she paused. She chewed her lip nervously, then walked toward the standing mirror in the corner of the room – the one she kept turned so it faced the wall. She hesitantly rotated the mirror until her reflection looked back at her. She lowered her head to avoid her own stare as she unlaced her bodice and stood in only her smallclothes. Mustering some courage, she raised her eyes and allowed herself to take in her appearance. Obviously, she knew what her body looked like – seeing it every time she undressed or bathed, but she always avoided letting her eyes linger. However, she _never_ allowed herself to take in her reflection in the mirror – to see herself the way another person would, a maid, a maester … a lover.

Her gaze started down at her bare feet and moved slowly up her legs. They were long and pale, though more muscular than she remembered, owing to months on the road with Theon, Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick, and days (and nights) spent walking about the grounds of Winterfell. She took in the smattering of small scars on her calves and thighs. Some were but faint lines, others were slightly larger – squares where small bits of flesh had been peeled away in what Ramsay affectionately referred to as “mini flaying”. A few small burn marks adorned her inner thighs. The burns had been particularly painful, but thankfully Ramsay wasn’t overly fond of that particular method of abuse; he preferred _bloodier_ means.

Steeling herself again, her eyes travelled up to her torso. Her wide hips and tapered waist would be any man’s fantasy if they weren’t riddled with more scars. On the front of her left hip she let her fingers trace the outline of the raised flesh that had been branded with the sigil of House Bolton. That had been one of the first “gifts” bestowed on her by Ramsay – a sign to any person that might look upon Sansa’s naked form, and a constant reminder to Sansa herself, that she belonged to him, and him alone.

She willed herself to turn around, just enough to see her back and shoulders. The scars here were different: thin, long lines in crisscrossed patterns, lash marks bestowed on her by Ramsay. If she looked closely though, she could also see older, faded scars that she had carried since her time in King’s Landing. Seeing these marks brought thoughts of the Hound once again to her mind. She remembered the first time her dress was ripped from her back, when Joffrey ordered Ser Meryn Trant to beat her with the flat of his sword. After several minutes of this, the Hound had shouted “Enough!” This single word was enough to be treason in Joffrey’s deranged mind, but the King was so shocked by the outburst from his ever-loyal Hound that he did not react for several seconds. Eventually, to save face, he addressed Ser Meryn, “My dog is right, that’s enough for one day, I don’t want her marked too badly or I won’t enjoy looking upon her when I bed her.” Sansa was escorted roughly back to her chambers by Ser Meryn while she held up the front of her dress.

The subsequent times this _punishment_ was meted out, the Hound said nothing to stop it, but when Sansa chanced glances in his direction, she’d see pure rage simmering in his eyes. Eventually this type of beating stopped when one day Lord Tyrion entered the throne room with his sellsword, Bronn. Tyrion threatened Ser Meryn and ordered someone to cover the girl. It was the Hound who stepped forward to gently drape his white cloak over her naked back, without looking in her eyes even after she mumbled her feeble thanks. At least he didn’t mock her courtesy, not that day.

_A single word spoken, and a draped cloak._ Those two simple actions were hardly the work of some legendary knight, but in complete absence of kindness from any other person in the Capital, Sansa began to look at Sandor Clegane as her _true knight_ , though she’d never dare tell him that.

With a sigh, Sansa returned to her bed, donned her sleeping gown, and allowed herself to drift to sleep just as the first colors of daylight painted the sky.


	6. The Queen's Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has more questions; Sansa does her duty.

**Sandor**

Despite falling asleep at such a late hour, Sandor woke before the sun on his second day in Winterfell. It took a few moments to recognize his surroundings. Hearing few signs of life, he allowed himself to lay on the straw pallet for a few more minutes. Much to his disappointment, the few hours of deep sleep did nothing to quiet his racing mind, and he again found himself pondering the prior day’s events. The same questions bubbled to the surface, along with new ones. He was also able to put to words some of yesterday’s observations, things he hadn’t consciously noticed at the time, given his state of near shock at seeing the little bird.

Most notably, he thought about her face. He recalled how all the softness of youth was gone from her features. Her nose was straight, her jaw and cheek bones razor-sharp. Her mouth was small, but her lips were full, and pursed in a tight line rather than the sugar-sweet smile she wore as a child. Her skin was paler than it was in King’s Landing – but this was no surprise given the weak sunlight that graced the North. She was beautiful, to be sure, and now with a woman’s allure rather than the prettiness of a child, but without the warmth she once radiated.

But it wasn’t her features that struck him most, it was her expression – or, more accurately, the lack thereof. She neither smiled nor scowled. Her eyebrows never lifted, her eyes never widened or narrowed. Even as the cocky fucker spewed insults at her she appeared indifferent. Even when her eyes found Sandor for the first time, the look of surprise was so subtle that Sandor now questioned whether it was ever really there. She spoke kindly to the old man – Creery, Sandor recalled – but no warmth was to be found in her eyes or tone.

Sandor would expect to see this if he found the little bird still in King’s Landing under the Lannister’s thumb, or hostage to some other cunt, but she was home now, she was Queen in the bloody North, what cause did she have to remain so somber?

_That man called her the Ice Queen… do her own people think of her this way as well?_

He thought further on the events and recollected how not once during the hours of court had anyone objected to her commands or decrees. Not the commoners, not the guards, not even the prisoners.

_Do they_ fear _her? Or is it respect? Do all these Northmen really follow the girl so loyally that they don’t question any of her choices?_

_And she called me a “friend” – is that really how she saw me all those years ago? I was mean and crude. I frightened her the night of the Blackwater. I did next to nothing to stop the abuses she suffered at the hands of that golden bastard, yet she still thought me a_ friend _? Are her memories so distorted?_

_And why did she spend the night wandering the grounds? Who goes into a crypt in the wee hours of the morning? And where was her sworn shield – that skinny bugger? Does she always walk around unguarded at night, when any of these strays she’s taken in could rape, kidnap, or kill her?_

_And why does no one here speak about their Queen? Every castle is filled with gossip, is Winterfell the sole exception?_

Yesterday Sandor was prepared to leave for Castle Black, but now he did not feel so certain. He wanted answers; he _needed_ answers. He didn’t give a flying fart about the Night’s Watch and the army of the dead; he felt suddenly obsessed with a single purpose: to find out _everything_ he could about the little bird, and how she came to rule the largest kingdom in the realm, on her own, with no husband.

But then something struck Sandor – an idea that made his stomach churn inexplicably… _Maybe she_ does _have a husband. Just because he wasn’t at court doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist. Perhaps he is away from Winterfell, treating with another family, or putting down some group of rebels._

One thing seemed clear even after his short time in Winterfell: Sandor would not get the answers he sought within the Castle walls. He would find some nearby village or town where, with any luck, lips would be looser.

With a new mission to work toward, Sandor rose with the sun, and followed the mass of men and women to the large dining hall to break his fast. He spoke with Beric and Thoros during the meal. Both were still set on continuing to the Wall – it was, after all, their _destiny_ , as they put it. However they considered delaying their journey a fortnight to help with the repairs, as a thanks for the mercy they were afforded. Their minds were not made up; they’d make their decision by the evening. Sandor shared with them some of his uncertainties but tried to avoid seeming _too_ interested in the Queen, specifically. They knew he was acquainted with her from his time as Joffrey’s shield, but he’d never spoken of his more personal encounters with the girl to anyone… anyone save Elder Brother.

The men made themselves busy through the morning with various tasks, helping to haul lumber and stones, mix mortar, chop firewood. Sandor didn’t want to seem too eager to leave for Winter Town – the nearest village, which he learned was only a half hour’s ride from the East Gate.

He saw nothing of the little bird until just before midday. He assumed she was in court, until he saw her emerge not from the main hall but from the family keep. She wore the same leather dress as the day before, with the key and small dagger hanging from the chain she wore as other women might wear a string of pearls or gemstones.

He sensed an energy begin to surge – a sudden alertness among the men and women who were beginning to gather in the muddy courtyard. Their queen spoke to one of the guards, then stood solemnly with her hands joined behind her back. She did not address the crowd. Sandor recalled that men were to be executed today at noon, but he saw no scaffold or executioner. After some minutes, nine men in chains were led to the courtyard. Sandor recognized the six men who knelt before Sansa yesterday. Their faces bore scowls, but Sandor could smell the fear even from where he stood some thirty yards away. The one who insulted Sansa was staring daggers at her, but she appeared unfazed. The men were made to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the crowd. A few men and women muttered insults, but the majority remained quiet.

With her chin high, Sansa approached the men and spoke a single word: “Kneel”. All complied without argument. She stood next to the man on the far right from Sandor’s vantage point and spoke loud and clear for all to hear. “You’ve been found guilty of the crimes of theft and murder and have been sentenced to die. Do you have any last words?”

_Well, the little bird doesn’t mince words, that’s for sure._

One of the men Sandor didn’t recognize spoke in a shaky voice, “M’lady, I mean, your grace. I accept my fate. I only wish that you would find the gold chain I wear around my neck, and see it returned to my mother. Her name is Elyn Drake, and she lives on a small farm just south of the Dreadfort. Please tell her to sell the chain, I do not ask her to keep it, I have shamed my family and am not worthy of their remembrance. That is, if it please you, your grace.”

Sansa stepped before him and reached beneath his collar, pulling the chain over his head and inspecting it briefly before placing it in her pocket. “Rest assured, I will see your will done.” She returned to where she had been standing and once again addressed the men. “Does anyone else wish to speak?”

The fucker from yesterday spoke again, projecting his voice for all to hear. “You may have taken Winterfell, _Ice Queen_ , but your name alone is not enough to hold it. Northmen will not kneel to some wolf whore, Stark or no. Sooner or later, you will be made to pay for your crimes against the Boltons. My only regret is that I won’t live to see the day.”

Sansa responded matter-of-factly, “Anything else?” The men remained silent. “Very well then.”

Sandor continued scanning the area but could see no swordsman. He soon realized that Sansa would follow in the tradition of her father: the one who passes the sentence shall swing the sword. Except she wore no sword. She stepped behind the man closest to her, and with no reluctance she slid her dagger across his throat, leaving behind a red crescent marking the path of her blade. Sandor winced but did not look away. The wound quickly opened, and blood spurted out profusely. The cut was quite deep, and the man fell forward dead, or at least unconscious, in ten heartbeats.

She repeated this action on each of the next eight men, with neither haste nor hesitation, even as they began to get restless. A few cried, but she pressed on. After the last man was dead, she wiped her dagger on his tunic, just as Sandor had once taught her little sister to do. She then walked toward the Great Hall, while the crowd returned to their duties. Nine corpses were loaded onto a cart and hauled beyond the gate by two strong horses. A half hour later, Sandor saw billows of dark smoke in the distance, and though he was upwind, he could swear he smelled the familiar odor of burning flesh.


	7. Winter Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets some answers

**Sandor**

_What the fuck was that?!_

Sandor’s head was whirling. He couldn’t get out of the blasted castle fast enough. He made his way to the stables, saddled Stranger, and headed toward the open gate. He rode hard – as hard as he would chance over the rutted ground – in the direction of Winter Town.

_Who is this woman who has taken over the body of the delicate little bird? This can’t be the same girl who chirped her courtesies and dreamed of knights and maidens fair. This isn’t the girl I knew in King’s Landing. What the fuck has happened to turn her into this cold killer, this_ Ice Queen?

Before he knew it, he was passing through the main gatehouse of Winter Town. He immediately spotted the ale house with its carved wooden sign bearing the words ‘Drunken Dog’. _That’s fitting._ He tied Stranger out front, calmed his nerves, and entered through the heavy wooden door.

What he found inside barely resembled a tavern. A sole barkeep was pouring ale for the paltry group of men that occupied the primitive tables, with logs as stools. Perhaps finding answers here wouldn’t be as easy as Sandor had hoped, but he had to try. He ordered a horn of ale, paying with some of the coppers he’d taken from Elder Brother’s hidden hoard. He looked around and noticed only three tables occupied, two with three men, one with two. If any of the men were alarmed by his size or his scars, or the longsword he wore at his hip, they didn’t show it. Northerners seemed a braver lot, in his limited experience. He sat at the bar and began planning his strategy to extract the most information without raising suspicion.

“My thanks for the ale. I haven’t had a sip for months.” That was true. “Tell me friend, what news from Winterfell?”

“What do you mean, _friend?”_ The barkeep mocked him. _No, this won’t be easy._

“I heard they are in need of laborers and fighters. Is this still true?”

“Aye, it’s true. Which one are you?” the barkeep asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“Both. I’m whatever they need. Tired of the road, ready to find a place to stay put for a bit.” He paused so to seem less eager. “Tell me, does Lady Stark still hold sway?”

The barkeep appraised Sandor for a moment before answering, “Aye, the wolves are back in the North, or at least one of them.”

“Glad to hear it, Gods know I’d never step foot near the place if the Boltons still ruled. Never did find out what happened, only heard the Lady Stark took back her home. Can’t imagine how she managed that. Those Boltons were tough buggers.” Sandor tried to look indifferent but hoped the barkeep would continue the conversation.

He did. “Hmpf. Indeed, wasn’t easy. But I’m sure glad of it. These lands weren’t safe when _Roose Bolton_ held Winterfell. No honor among that lot. No man safe from theft, no woman safe from rape. The Lone Wolf, she rallied the bannermen loyal to her brother, and a few thousand Wildlings – can’t say I was happy to hear that, but, so far, they seem to be abiding by the laws of the land… Anyway they took Winterfell pretty easily after drawing out Bolton’s forces by attacking the Dreadfort. Lord Bolton was always a bit too fond of that blasted place, should’ve been smart enough to stay put in Winterfell.”

“Aye, none too smart. Should’ve known it was a trap.”

“True enough but he left enough men to defend Winterfell, only he wasn’t expecting an attack from the inside.”

“You don’t say? How’d the Stark forces manage that?”

“The Queen herself led a bunch of Wildling women back in the through the tunnel she escaped through herself. The Boltons never saw ‘em coming. Took out most of the archers, opened the gates, and the rest of her army finished off the Boltons. Queen herself took care of some of the prisoners. Suffice to say, no more Boltons; they’re deader than the Reynes.”

Sandor used all his will not to let his jaw drop. _My little bird, leading an attack on Winterfell? Killing the Bolton prisoners? Bugger me._ Then his mind finally caught up with one of the man’s other words… _Escaped?_ He finally composed himself enough to form a question, “What do you mean the tunnel she escaped through?”

The old man stared at him for a moment, as if the answer should be obvious. “The secret tunnel she escaped through after she killed her husband, the bloody bastard, Ramsay _Bolton.”_

_Sansa, married to Ramsay Bolton?_ Sandor only knew the man by reputation, but if even half of the rumors were true than the bastard was even more deranged than Joffrey. He flayed alive his enemies, even those that surrendered.

_How did Sansa end up married to Ramsay? Had she fled north and been captured by the Boltons? Did she marry Ramsay out of desperation to be back in her home? And how the fuck did she get that far north without being captured by the Lannisters?_

Suddenly, Sandor was afraid to ask any more answers. He wanted to know how long Sansa had been married to the bastard but wasn’t sure he could stomach the answer. One thing was certain, for Sansa to commit murder and escape her home, her husband must have been as cruel to her as he’d been to his enemies.

Sandor drank his ale in silence for some minutes, trying to absorb everything he’d heard. He bought and drank another ale before standing to leave. He allowed himself one last question, a seemingly safe one: “How’d she kill him, her husband?”

At this a toothy grin spread across the barkeep’s face, stretching from ear to ear. “Same way all wolves kill: she went for the throat.”

\------------------------------------------------

It was sunset by the time Sandor rode through the East Gate. His return trip had been at a much slower pace. He considered going to the dining hall but had no appetite. Instead he used his remaining rations to get two wineskins from the kitchen, then wandered the grounds aimlessly, lost in thought. He retraced the little bird’s steps from the prior night – first venturing to the Godsood, where he stared at the weeping eyes of the Weirwood tree. He found the sight unnerving, and quickly proceeded to the Glass Gardens. Finding them unlocked he entered and felt instantly soothed by the warm air that enveloped him. He collapsed and sat against one of the walls, his legs outstretched before him.

He drank his wine a bit too quickly, for soon his head was spinning, though he welcomed the sensation. He couldn’t bear another moment of thinking about the little bird married to the fucking Bolton bastard. Sandor didn’t have all the answers, didn’t have all the details, but he knew without a doubt that her _husband_ was responsible for killing the sweet little bird he knew in the Red Keep, and replacing her with the cold, hard woman who now ruled the North with an iron fist.

Sandor finished his wine, having no desire to return to the crowded men’s barracks. He didn’t realize how exhausted he was, but once seated his legs refused to stand again. He let the quiet and warmth of the gardens lull him into a drunken slumber, and only woke when he heard a high-pitched shriek.


	8. A Chance Encounter

**Sansa / Sandor**

Sometime after midnight, Sansa found herself in the Godswood once again. After saying her prayers, she walked to the Glass Gardens. Strolling lazily down each row, she whispered words of encouragement and praise to the young plants that would soon grow large and sustain her people through the winter.

With her head lowered, she didn’t notice the pair of large legs splayed on the ground until she nearly stepped on them. She screamed and turned so fast that she tripped over a table and fell to the ground. She scurried clumsily to her feet but not before glimpsing the large figure rising unsteadily to his own. Before she could turn to run, she recognized the confused and sleep-addled face of Sandor Clegane.

“What are you doing here!?” she shrieked.

Groggily he replied, “I fell asleep.”

“Clearly! But why are you _here?”_

_Why am I here? Where’s here? Oh right, the gardens. Drank too much wine. Fuck. Make something up._

“I – I didn’t want to sleep in the bloody barracks. Too many snoring fucks in there. It’s warm enough in here, didn’t think anyone would mind…”

“Well _I_ mind! These aren’t your personal quarters!”

Sandor felt his blood rising. _Why does she care where I pass out, so long as it isn’t in her bed?_

“My apologies, _your grace!_ I’ll be on my way, then.” He headed for the door before Sansa spoke, “No, wait… I-I’m sorry. You just _startled_ me. No one is ever here at night.”

“ _You’re_ here.”

“Yes, I mean no one _else_ is ever here,” she huffed.

“How do you know? Make a habit of visiting the gardens at night?” He knew the answer. This was two nights in a row she came here, and he had a feeling it was a regular occurrence.

“I-I come here when I can’t sleep. I like to inspect our crop, doesn’t matter whether I do it at night or during the day.”

“Hmmm, suppose not. Well I’ll leave you to your _inspection_ then, your grace.” Again he headed for the door, and again her words stopped him.

“Wait… Sandor, may I ask you a question?”

“You’re the queen, you can ask whatever you want. Mayhap I’ll have an answer.”

She ignored the resentment in his voice and proceeded, “Lady Brienne said she fought you near Saltpans. She said you were with my sister Arya. She thinks maybe you were her escort. Her… _protector_. Is this true?”

_So that aurochs of a woman is here, too? Wonderful._

“Lady Brienne, eh? She the big bitch, dresses like a man, and fights like a man? Aye, well, I _was_ with the little wolf for a time, before she left me for dead, the cold bitch. Didn’t even give me the gift of mercy when I begged for it. As for whether I was her _protector_ , I suppose I was, of a sort, though she didn’t need much protecting, not with that sharp little sword of hers.”

The faintest hint of a smile traced Sansa’s face at his words, and he could tell she was recalling with fondness her feisty little sister.

_The girl wasn’t so bad, didn’t whinge like most high-born brats would have._

Before he realized it was happening, Sansa closed the gap between them. He suddenly felt as if his feet were full of lead, like he couldn’t move even if he tried. She lifted her arm slightly, as if she meant to touch him, but dropped it just as quickly. “Thank you, Sandor.” He wasn’t sure if she was thanking him for telling her the truth or thanking him for taking care of her sister. “I’ll be leaving now. If you wish to stay here for the night, I’ll not object.” She moved to leave and this time it was Sandor who stopped her.

“Wait, lit- your grace. Allow me to escort you to your chambers; you shouldn’t be walking alone at this hour.”

“That isn’t necessary, though I thank you for the offer. I’m not going to my chambers.”

“Well, then let me escort you to wherever you’re going,” remembering his courtesies, he added “if it please you.”

Sansa considered his offer a moment before declining. “As I said, that isn’t necessary, though you have my thanks… Good night, Sandor.” With that she hastily left the gardens, closing the door behind her, leaving no room for argument.


	9. A Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor wrestles with a decision.

**Sandor**

Immediately after parting company with the little bird the night before, Sandor made his decision: he would stay at Winterfell. Then he sat back down between two tables in the gardens and promptly changed his mind.

_There’s nothing for you here, dog. Move on to the Wall and enjoy the company of men of your class._

He closed his eyes and invited sleep, but only anxious thoughts visited him.

_But there_ is _something for you here – the chance to serve her, to atone for your past actions – and inactions – that contributed to her suffering._

_But she doesn’t think you owe her anything, she doesn’t think you wronged her. She said you’d been a ‘friend’. You owe her nothing._

_You owe her_ everything _._

Sandor rubbed his aching head and tried to tackle the dilemma with a more logical approach: on the one hand, he could go to the Wall and help the Night’s Watch…

_That would be a noble cause, wouldn’t it? And up there I won’t have to kill anyone – no one_ living _, at least. I won’t risk returning to my old ways, the Hound can stay dead. If I stay in Winterfell there is no doubt I’ll be assigned to guard or ranger duty, it will only be a matter of time before I have to swing a sword again… and then again… and then again. How many times can I kill before I become a_ killer _again?_

It was a compelling argument, one the Elder Brother would support, but it had a fundamental flaw: _She won’t be there._

The idea of finding the little bird after all these years, of being gifted the chance to come into her service, felt too much like _fate._ Not that he ever believed in that horseshit.

Despite his efforts at rationale deliberation he knew there was only one reason to stay and one reason to go, and those reasons were one and the same: _Sansa Stark_. Sandor’s heart yearned to be near her – to have a chance every day to see the flame of her hair, to occupy her space, to breathe her air – but he knew this would only condemn him to a lifetime of torture, to be close to something he could never touch, much less possess.

_But if you leave, won’t you still be tortured? You’ll think about her, just as you did all that time on the Quiet Isle. She will haunt your dreams, haunt your nightmares, haunt your fantasies..._

So his true options were to be tortured at the Wall or be tortured at Winterfell. In those simple terms, the decision was surprisingly easy.

\-------------------------------------------------

The next morning Sandor found Steward Sedgwell in the man’s solar as he’d done the day he arrived in Winterfell, only this time Sandor was alone; he had not yet told Thoros and Beric of his decision, for fear they’d convince him it was unwise – and for fear that they’d be right.

The busy man barely looked up when Sandor entered, though he spoke immediately, “What can I do for you Ser … Clegane, is it?”

“Aye, though I’m not a _Ser_ …”

Sandor cleared his throat as though about to recite vows. “I’ve come to inform you that I’ve chosen to take your lady, I mean, your queen, up on her offer to stay here. Indefinitely. I’ve come for my labor assignment.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sedgwell said, though his voice showed no sign, “please tell me any special skills, trades, or education you have.”

_Is it not obvious?_

“Midwife, my lord.”

Finally the steward looked up, unamused.

_Too much time on the road with that bald cunt Thoros, I’m japing like a fool._

“Pardon the jest, my lord. My greatest skill is as a swordsman, though I’m quite capable with other weapons as well. I’m capable at hunting, trapping, and tracking. I’ve more recent experience with carpentry and farming. I’m good with animals – dogs and horses I mean, not livestock. And, in case it’s not obvious, I’m well-suited to general physical labor.”

The steward was visibly impressed, as was Sandor himself. It was rare that anyone asked him to do anything but kill. The carpentry and farming he only learned on the Quiet Isle, but the other skills he possessed since he was a boy at Clegane Keep and Casterly Rock, though it was easy to forget he was more than a sword.

“It sounds like you can contribute in just about any role, but our Queen is most in need of men who can swing a sword. That is the one domain of the castle I do not oversee, so please report to our captain-of-the-guards, Ser Daryl Poole, for your assignment.”

Sandor bowed his thanks then went in search of the captain, however when he found the middle-aged man in the training yard, Sandor still wouldn’t get his answer.

“You’re Clegane, are you not?”

“I am.”

“Her grace has instructed me to send you to her directly for assignment, should you come to me first.”

“And why is that?”

The man shrugged before returning his attention to the boys sparring in the yard.

It annoyed him that Sansa had already put thought into what his assignment would be before he had made his decision known, as if she thought to know his mind.

_Don’t have more important things to think about than some old dog?_

He also found it odd that she would take the time to instruct Poole to send Sandor to her rather than just tell Poole the assignment to convey himself.

With some assistance he found the door to her solar and knocked, but there was no response. Sandor didn’t want to spend the day searching the castle for the little bird, so he waited there until a young maid walked past, not two minutes later. “Ay, girl, where can I find your la- your queen?”

“You won’t find her now, m’lord,” the girl spoke to his scars, lip trembling, “She doesn’t leave her chambers until eleven o’clock, for court. You can meet her after court, in the room off of the Great Hall.” The girl scurried off before he could inquire further.

_Sleeping in, little bird?_ He scoffed. It did not strike him as very _queenly_ behavior, but then King Robert was barely even _present_ at his own court, and Joffrey only used court as an opportunity to torment his subjects – and his _betrothed_.

Sandor sighed. One awkward meeting postponed, he set out to take care of another one.

\---------------------------------------------

Sandor found Thoros and Beric at the stables, watching a stable boy ready their mounts as the pair took inventory of the supplies contained in their saddlebags. It appeared the queen had been generous with them, considering the food ration currently in place.

Beric smiled knowingly at Sandor, “Your attire is not suitable for winter travel, my friend.”

“It’s barely suitable for standing in a bloody courtyard,” Sandor mumbled with an exaggerated shiver.

Thoros did not hide his disappointment, but as usual took the opportunity to include a jest and a statement about his precious fire-god: “We will miss your company, unbearable as it was, but it would appear the Lord of Light has a different path in mind for you.”

“Wouldn’t know about that, just have something of an obligation to fulfill.” Sandor shrugged, trying to look apathetic, “Besides, this southern lad rather wishes to keep all his fingers, toes, and various _other_ appendages.”

At that Thoros and Beric chuckled. The men grasped arms firmly, and for a half second longer than was customary, before Sandor turned to leave, but Beric seemed to have a parting question for his _friend._

“This _obligation…_ it doesn’t, by chance, have red hair, does it?” He smirked mischievously as he rode away, leaving Sandor no opportunity for retort.

\-------------------------------------------------

Still without assignment, Sandor considered helping with some general labor but, knowing this was his last day for idleness, he decided to attend court instead. It was nearly eleven by now, so he entered the Great Hall and took up position in the far back corner, hoping to be out of the little bird’s sight, though he should have no reason to hide from her now.

It was odd to watch court from this vantage point, he’d always been _behind_ the throne, able to view the faces of the petitioners and lords and ladies of court, but not the face of the King or Queen. This time it was the opposite: the only face he could see, other than the ones to either side of him, was that of the Queen and her scared puppy of a sworn shield. There were several matters for her to settle today: land disputes, broken betrothals, requests for aid, and accusations of petty crime. The most common plea, however, was the request to come into Winterfell’s service – a request that was granted to all who asked. That fact should have worried Sandor, but he noticed that all who were granted entry were either widows, orphaned children, or old men. War had a way of doing that, Sandor supposed: eradicating every man older than six-and-ten and younger than sixty. He supposed that was fair, since those were the people responsible for starting wars, more often than not. It also explained why Winterfell’s greatest deficit was not grain or wine but soldiers.

Throughout the proceedings, Sansa wore her mask and spoke in her measured, icy tone. It was clear based on her rulings that she listened well and responded thoughtfully, but a deaf man would easily think that Sansa was _bored._ Sandor remembered this version of Sansa – or something close to it – occasionally making an appearance in King’s Landing, toward the latter part of her time there. But this was _different_ , and yet familiar. He’d not seen an indifference quite so practiced in anyone else – anyone save himself. He learned to wear his mask after years of suffering, first at the hands of his elder brother Gregor, then later at the words of the people who mocked his ruin of a face. At first his mask was only on the outside, but over time the callous spread like greyscale to cover his very heart and mind, making him impervious to the suffering of himself and others…

…that is, until the little bird flew into the Red Keep, gliding on wings fashioned of kindness and courtesy.

He pondered whether Sansa’s mask had managed to penetrate her skin, or if it was like _his_ early mask: only for show. He suspected the latter; after all it took him many years to harden on the inside, but of one thing he was certain: as with him, it could only have been prolonged personal suffering that caused her mask to form in the first place.

\---------------------------------------------

After court, as promised, Sandor found Sansa in a small room adjoining the great hall. It appeared to be some kind of solar, containing only a few chairs, a side table, and a large desk filled with numerous parchments, piled as neatly as Sandor had only ever seen on one other desk – that of Tywin Lannister.

A page announced his presence, though it wasn’t necessary – Sansa was already beckoning him to sit in a chair across from her. He rejected the proffered glass of wine – she’d already seen him drinking or drunk too many times during his brief time here.

She spoke first, “Poole sent you?”

He was tempted to deny it; it irked him that she’d accurately predicted his decision, but he had no other excuse for his presence. “Aye.”

She nodded and got right to the point, “By now you’re aware that wagons transporting much-needed supplies from White Harbor have been attacked and stolen multiple times.”

“I’m aware.”

“Our guards are brave and well-intentioned, but many of them are fairly new to combat, and not accustomed to defending attacks that come from all sides, out in the open, without the protection of castle walls.”

_She wants me as a guard, protecting her precious shipments. Should have known, it’s the Hound she needs, not Sandor Clegane._

But he could not deny her any request. “You’re assigning me to the wagon guard then,” he said with acceptance.

She eyed him as if his assumption was completely unmerited, “I’m assigning you to _train_ a special group of guards specifically for the task, and to devise and institute any strategies that would deter or thwart an attack. Whether you personally wield a sword is your prerogative: I order no man to fight unless it is his inclination to do so.”

Sandor mulled her request as she continued, “This group of men will obviously continue to perform their regular duty when not traveling with the wagons… the shipments come in every fortnight, though they may become more frequent in the future. Is this agreeable to you?”

“Aye, your grace.”

“Good. Report to Poole first thing in the morning. He will inform you of the nature of the past attacks – how many assailants, the locations, their weaponry, and any other details you need. You may select a dozen men for the team or ask for his recommendation.”

“I’ll let him know the skills I need and let him pick.”

“As you wish. Should you need a strong bowman, Rodan is one of our best, Poole will likely tell you as much. Also, please go directly to the leatherworker to put in a request for armor. Whether you intend to accompany your team or not, you should have it, and I doubt anything we have in stock will fit your…” her eyes roved over his chest, “…build.” His cock twitched of its own accord, and he shifted in his seat.

“No steel?”

“Northmen don’t wear steel armor, though our smith is more than capable of making it. However, I’d advise against it. Leather is better in the cold, and just as durable, assuming our bandits aren’t swinging Valyrian steel. You can request a chainmail vest from the armory if you wish, and helm, of course. Whatever you decide, tell them to expedite the task, orders of the queen.”

“My thanks—”

She interrupted him, “I almost forgot, you may move into the Guards Hall. They sleep two to a room, but I believe they aren’t at capacity, so you should have your own quarters for a time. You may move your belongings there immediately.”

“Don’t have any belongings, but what I’m wearing, and the horse in the stables.”

She looked almost sad for a moment, “Well, see to that as well – if there is one thing we have in abundance, it is clothing… _Benefit_ of having fewer bodies to clothe.”

It would have sounded harsh coming from anyone else, but Sandor knew the loss of so many of her people would be paining Sansa greatly.

“My thanks, again, your grace.”

She grimaced slightly, “Please, don’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“My lady, Lady Sansa – almost anything _but_ ‘your grace’ or ‘my queen’ will suffice.”

It seemed an odd request, “Even in front of others?”

“Yes, my closest retainers are given the same instruction.” Her clarification was meant to tell him these weren’t special privileges for him, but her inclusion of him among her ‘closest retainers’ beguiled him.

“As you say… my lady.” He could not bring himself to say her name, even with a title in front of it. It felt too much like addressing a friend, and he didn’t let himself pretend such a thing was possible.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Just one: when is your next shipment scheduled to arrive?”

“Six days from now,” again she winced, “I don’t expect you’ll have—”

“It’s fine, we’ll have at least made some tactical decisions and practiced defensive techniques by then; the progress of their training will depend on the aptitude of the men themselves.”

His optimism seemed to please her as he spied a trace of warmth in her green eyes.

“Thank you, Sandor… oh – you are comfortable with me calling you Sandor, or would you prefer Clegane, or… something else?”

_I’d prefer ‘darling’ …_ “Sandor is fine.” In truth it was better than fine. Hearing those two syllables from her mouth, spying the tip of her little pink tongue as she pronounced the “S” – it was quite possibly the loveliest sound and sight he’d ever be privy to.

“Well, thank you again, Sandor.”

“You’re most welcome.”

With much effort he rose, bowed, and left the sweet torture that was her presence.


	10. Training Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor begins his new assignment

**Sandor**

The day after receiving his assignment Sandor woke before the sun. He slept quite well the evening prior in his sparse but comfortable room in the Guards Hall. It was still a straw mattress, but it was covered with several soft, thick blankets which he laid atop rather than under.

He found Poole arriving at the training yard at the same moment and he greeted the man. He described the queen’s assignment and Poole nodded his assent. Sandor was somewhat surprised the man didn’t question Sandor’s qualifications, or – more fundamentally – his loyalty to House Stark, but Sandor took it as just another indication of the respect – or fear – that Sansa elicited from her people.

Poole shouted some commands at the guards who’d arrived to train, then returned his attention back to Sandor and began describing the nature of the wagon attacks. 

The shipments destined for Winterfell from White Harbor were actually transported from the port city northwest to Castle Cerwyn – one of the Stark vassals – by Cerwyn men. The way from White Harbor to Castle Cerwyn was safe, benefiting from the relatively high population in and around the port city.

It was when Stark men – who would arrive at Castle Cerwyn just ahead of the shipments – were taking the wagons due north to Winterfell that the attacks would occur. It was not a very long distance, but the lands were desolate – nothing but a few burnt out barns and cottages marked the route. The woods were dense on either side of the Kingsroad – which they kept to for most of the journey – so bandits could easily stage their attacks from the cover of the trees. Sometimes they were never even seen by the Stark guards – a few arrows were shot, and the guards would abandon the wagon (and the horses harnessed to it) and ride to Winterfell on their own mounts.

When the culprits engaged them more directly it was never more than eight men, and their skills with the sword varied greatly. Some of the bandits fought like trained soldiers while others could be bested by a squire. 

The thieves that had been captured at various points – like the men recently executed by Lady Sansa – claimed to be rogue operators, though Poole suspected they were part of a larger ring.

_He doesn’t know how to make a man talk. I’ll get answers for our queen, should we capture another of the buggers._

“Did these attacks happen when Bolton held sway?”

“We asked some of the former Bolton servants – all his guards were killed in or after the battle… The servants vaguely recalled hearing of an attack, but…”

“Wouldn’t Lady Stark know?” Sandor interrupted. _Such news would certainly come up at the breakfast table between a lord and his wife._

Poole just blinked at him before proceeding, “…as I was saying, we’ve already had six attacks in only four moons. If the Bolton’s wagons were attacked with that frequency, the servants would know, or at least their bellies would.”

_The benefit to flaying men alive: no one dares cross you._

Sandor squeezed the bridge of his nose, already regretting his acceptance of this assignment. Defending a slow-moving wagon when you can’t even see your opponent would not be an easy chore.

Poole seemed to be growing impatient but was polite enough to not voice it.

“How are the roads? Obviously not terrible if you can take a wagon along them.”

Poole nodded, “They’re fairly smooth. Ground is pretty packed.”

“You always ride straight to Castle Cerwyn and back in the same day?”

“Yes. It’s about six hours there and almost double that coming back due to the pace of a loaded wagon. The men leave before dawn, arrive at Cerwyn before midday, and only rest an hour before returning.”

“So part of your return trip is in the dark?”

Poole shifted, “Yes, the last few hours of it. Usually they arrive back at Winterfell just after midnight.”

“So more than a few hours in the dark, more like six or seven.” He didn’t hide the slight judgment in his tone, but Poole did not back down.

“Only two of the six attacks have been after dusk.”

“So the other attacks were much closer to Cerwyn than Winterfell?”

“Much,” Poole confirmed.

Sandor nodded but Poole offered further explanation, “Cerwyn is a small House, with a small roster of guards. Once the wagon is any more than a mile past Cerwyn’s gates they offer little deterrent and even less protection.”

“Hmmm. Alright, I think that’s enough information for now. You have my thanks.”

“Are you ready to select the guards for your team?”

“You pick ‘em. I need four skilled with a bow and at least decent with a sword, five skilled with a sword, and three that are just plain big and strong. Those three don’t even have to be trained as guards, so long as they’re not craven.”

For the first time all morning, Poole grinned.

With little difficulty Poole selected from among the guards present four bowmen, five swordsmen, and one of the three ‘brutes’ as he japed with Sandor.

The men whose names were called looked less than thrilled to be selected – but whether it was the assignment or the commander that displeased them Sandor knew not – and cared not. 

Poole told him where he could find the two remaining ‘brutes’, so after instructing his men to do some training exercises he left them to their respective tasks and headed toward the North wall.

Among the couple dozen men laying mortar and stone at the wall, two stood out like whores in a Sept. Sandor approached the men who stood nearly as tall as he, one a bit narrower, one a bit wider. “You’re Brant and Cristofer?”

“Yes, but it’s just Cris. You the Queen’s new hound?”

“Yes, but it’s just Sandor.”

The slimmer man, Brant, seemed eager for a break from his labor, “What can we do for you, Sandor?”

“Either of you know how to swing a sword?”

They exchanged perplexed looks before Cris answered for both of them, “No, but we can swing a sledgehammer like it’s made out of feathers.”

Sandor grinned. _That’ll do_.

He turned and strolled away while shouting over his shoulder, “Be at the training yard at dawn on the morrow. _Queen’s orders.”_

\---------------------------------------------

He returned to the training yard and watched his men, observing their fighting styles and respective strengths and weaknesses. He offered some advice as well as his unique style of encouragement:

> “The idea is to kill your enemy, not tickle him.”
> 
> “That’s a dagger you’re holding, not your dainty little cock.”
> 
> “I once knew a twelve-year-old girl who was better with a sword!” _And her name was Arya Stark._
> 
> “No, by all means, take your time, I’m sure the man will hold still and wait for you to shoot him.”
> 
> “Should I bring your pretty queen here to teach you how to wield a blade?”
> 
> “That was much better, I _almost_ didn’t fall asleep watching this time.”

At the end of the session the men were spent, and Sandor was surprisingly proud. He had worked them hard but in truth they were more than passable. And in only one day with their new commander they had already learned how to recognize his _praise_ , as they laughed amicably at his parting words: “Well men, looks like I owe Poole a wineskin, none of you passed out and only one of you vomited.” A few of them even muttered “Good evening, commander” as they walked out of the courtyard.


	11. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa discuss the past

**Sandor**

The night after their first training session, Sandor was just as tired as his men. His soft mattress was tempting, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the little bird wandering around the castle grounds alone. It brought his mind back to a time when she wandered another castle alone, late at night – the Red Keep. Sandor would encounter her frequently while on night patrol. She always told him she was on her way to or from the Godswood to pray for the safety of her king, and for her traitor brother to be brought to justice. Sandor knew she wasn’t lying for his benefit – he had spoken harsh words about the bastard king himself. No, her lies were not for him – they were for any _ears_ that might be listening from the shadows – ears spying for Cersei Lannister, Tywin Lannister, the eunuch Varys, Littlefinger, and, later, for the Tyrells.

It occurred to Sandor that in the past few days at Winterfell Sansa had diverged in his mind: there was the Sansa of his past and the Sansa of his present. He knew the two women were comprised of the same flesh and bone, but present Sansa was like a stranger, while past Sansa he thought of as – as what? A spirit? A ghost? Perhaps it was simply habit – he’d spent more than two years thinking of her in the past tense only, assuming she was either dead or permanently gone from his life. Without intellectualizing it, he had _mourned_ her. When she came back to life before his eyes just a few days ago, the two Sansas might have merged in his mind if she was still that innocent, frightened little girl. But she clearly was not.

His time on the Quiet Isle under Elder Brother’s tutelage must have taught Sandor the art of introspection, for never in the prior decades of his life would he have drawn the parallels between young Sandor Clegane and the little bird, and between the Hound and the Ice Queen. For Sandor, the transformation point was obvious: the Hound was born the day his brother held his face in a brazier, though it would take a bit of time for him to completely develop and mature.

For Sansa, he knew the transformation happened sometime after he left King’s Landing and before he arrived at Winterfell. Was the Ice Queen also born of a specific event? Or had it been more gradual?

He may have dozed off once or twice, but never reached a deep sleep before finally giving up on the notion of rest.

_Fuck it._

There was only one place to go, the only stop along his lady’s nightly pilgrimage where his presence wouldn’t be entirely suspicious: the Glass Gardens. When he entered the warm, vegetation-filled sanctuary she was already there, stroking delicate leaves with her equally delicate fingers. She saw him out of the corner of her eye but didn’t turn to face him as she spoke, “You’ve got your own quarters now, surely the snores of other men are not disturbing you. What keeps you up at this hour?”

His instinct was to lie, but it was always hard to do that to her, “Ghosts. You?”

“Ghosts.”

He stared at her, but she still did not turn her head. He approached her slowly, unsure if his presence was welcome. It seemed to be as she spoke again, “Walk with me?”

He nodded and stepped to her side, keeping a hands-width between them. They began to stroll lazily down the long aisles, stopping frequently so Sansa could touch or smell a plant or dig her finger into some soil, checking the moisture level, he assumed.

“Tell me, how did you come to be in my sister’s company?”

“Coincidence, really.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence, not anymore.”

“Fine then, _divine intervention_ – or whatever you people of faith like to call it.”

She didn’t seem insulted by his mocking of her beliefs.

He then told her of how he was captured after leaving King’s Landing by the Brotherhood without Banners: Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and a couple dozen other men. They had only captured him because he was passed out drunk (drinking away memories of the little bird, though he did not share that detail). Arya Stark was with them, though they did not know her identity until Sandor opened his big mouth. That night they charged him with numerous crimes, but he defended himself, _“Every time I’ve killed has been at the order of my master – Tywin Lannister, then Cersei Lannister, then Joffrey Baratheon. Blame those blond twats all you want but keep me out of it.”_ He imitated his own angry, hungover voice.

Sansa interrupted him, “That’s not true though, you once killed without orders – the men who attacked me during the Bread Riots.”

Sandor stopped walking. Her speaking of their shared past had a strange effect on him. She wasn’t calling him a liar or a murderer – no, she was accusing him of being _honorable._

_But I’m_ not _honorable, or at least I wasn’t back then._

He still couldn’t bring himself to lie, though he wasn’t ready to give her the full truth – that the idea of his little bird being violated or killed was so appalling that he would have cut through a hundred men to see her safe.

He settled for something between lie and truth, “You were the king’s betrothed, my _charge’s_ betrothed. No one _ordered_ me to go back for you, but they didn’t need to. I always did my duty without needing to be reminded of it.”

For the brief moment he allowed himself to look in her eyes he thought he saw disappointment, but she only asked him to carry on with his story, as she bent down to take in the sweet aroma of a pale blue winter rose – one of the few plants in the gardens that seemed to exist for aesthetic rather than utility, if Sandor was correct.

“So the _Brotherhood_ decided to let their God judge me. Dondarrion and I engaged in trial by combat. He burned the fuck out of my shield arm, but I killed him, near cut him in two. Thoros brought him back. Apparently, the Lord of Light grants special powers to drunk, degenerate priests.” Thoros wasn’t really degenerate, Sandor had to admit, but he was most certainly a drunk.

Sandor expected her to be surprised but she only nodded, “So the information Petyr received about Ser Beric was correct.”

Sandor winced and felt a twinge of jealousy at hearing her refer to the sleazy whoremonger by his given name, “So you were with Littlefucker then, after you fled the Capital?”

“For a little while, yes,” she answered impatiently. “So how did you and Arya end up alone together, in Saltpans?”

“I won the trial by combat so Beric cut me loose, but I had no intention of leaving your sister with that lot, bunch of disgraced Knights and army deserters, even if Beric and Thoros seemed decent enough. Besides, I had none of my gold with me, and a Stark child at the time was worth her weight in the stuff.”

“So you intended to ransom her?”

He huffed, “Aye, and should have known better than to think the _Gods_ would do a dog like me any favors...”

“You’re _not_ a dog.”

“So you always say… anyway, we arrived at Riverrun just at the start of the Red Wedding…”

He stopped himself, realizing he’d just brought up the sensitive topic of her mother and brother’s murder at the hands of the Freys and Boltons. She looked undisturbed though and bid him continue.

“…well for your sister’s sake I suppose it’s good we didn’t arrive an hour earlier. Next, we made for the Vale, but when we arrived, we were told your Aunt Lysa had just died…”

“What?!” Sansa exclaimed, grabbing Sandor’s arm and turning him to face her with surprising force.

He repeated his words, “We tried for the Vale but your Aunt Lysa was dead, and I figured no one else there would recognize the girl, at least no one that I’d have trusted to leave her with…”

Sansa just stared at him, incredulous.

_Why is she so surprised?_

“You do know your aunt is dead, right?”

“Of course, I was there when it happened! I was in the Eyrie with Petyr.”

Sandor felt his jaw drop, and the familiar feeling of regret-tinged rage began building. If he had proceeded to the Eyrie, he might have seen the little bird, might have been able to take her away from Littlefinger, and then everything she’d suffered since then at the hands of Ramsay Bolton would never have happened.

_I’d have taken her and her sister to their brother at the Wall. They’d rally the northern bannerman, the Wildlings, take back Winterfell, and all without her having to lay under that sick fucker._

As if reading his mind her firm grip on his arm loosened to a feather-light touch. He looked down to find she was trying to comfort him – or herself. “He’d never have let you near me. He would have taken Arya and might not even have told me about her _or_ you. It’s better that you left. With two pieces to trade, he’d probably be sitting the throne himself right now, and though I hate to admit it, that is more frightening than Tommen Baratheon and his mother ruling the kingdoms.”

They resumed their stroll. He desperately wanted to ask what Littlefinger had done to her, though he feared the possible answers. He decided to probe on the general topic without asking anything too direct, “How did you end up in the Vale, anyway?”

“After Joffrey died it was a frenzy. I looked around for Tyrion, but I didn’t see him. Ser Dontos grabbed my arm and pulled me out of sight. He practically dragged me to the beach, the whole time repeating “trust me”, “I’m a friend”, “I’m taking you to a friend”, “If you stay, you’ll die”… It all happened so quickly, and perhaps it was unwise to trust him, but I had saved his life once – you remember – at Joffrey’s nameday feast?”

Sandor nodded. Joffrey had ordered his guards to drown Dontos the drunken knight in wine. Sansa intervened, making up some lie about it being bad luck to kill someone on your nameday. Joffrey looked suspicious until Sandor agreed with the lie and Dontos was spared – made to be a fool for the court rather than dinner for the earthworms.

“Dontos and I got in a rowboat with another man. I don’t even think I knew what was happening, I was still trying to wrap my mind around all that had transpired. I just kept picturing Joffrey drop his cup and claw at his throat as he turned red, then purple, then blue.”

_Wish I’d been there to see that._

“Before I knew it, I was climbing a rope ladder onto a small ship, and Petyr was there to greet me. I knew it was a mistake the moment Petyr ordered one of his guards to fill Dontos and the other man with arrows. I was sick right there on the boat, but Petyr convinced me that it was all done to keep me safe. He said that Dontos wasn’t my hero, he was paid well to deliver me to Petyr. That wasn’t enough to make me wish the man dead but then Petyr told me that Dontos believed I was destined for one of Petyr’s brothels – a ‘high-end establishment where wealthy lords and merchants pay top prices to enjoy the company of only the most well-bred and beautiful women’… Petyr reassured me that wasn’t to be my fate, but it was enough for me to accept his killing poor Dontos.”

Sandor had to ask, “And it wasn’t your fate, right?”

“No, I went to the Vale with Petyr and lived as his bastard daughter, _Alayne Stone_.” She said the name as if it was bitter on her tongue.

_How could anyone look at this girl and think she was a bastard sired by Littlefucker?_

“Didn’t anyone recognize you there? Your aunt?”

“She did, of course. Petyr told her my identity must remain hidden to protect me from the Lannisters and everyone else who’d want me either for my claim or my alleged crime.

“And no one else recognized you? What, did he keep you hidden away?”

“Hidden in plain sight. He dyed my hair himself, right there on the ship. No one but my Aunt Lysa knew what Sansa Stark looked like, anyone else would only have known me to be red of hair, like my mother.”

He wanted to continue on this topic, but Sansa seemed to be done. He didn’t want to push so he remained quiet as they walked up and down the long aisles. 

“It was well over two years ago that Brienne fought you in Saltpans, where were you all this time? Did you return to the Brotherhood, to Beric and Thoros?”

He didn’t want to share details of his time on the Quiet Isle, those wounds were still fresh, but he felt that after she shared a bit of her story, he owed her the same: “No. The wench left me good as dead, and I was ready for it, too. I vaguely remember some men prodding me, then loading me into an oxcart, and next thing I knew I woke up in a strange place with a bunch of robed fuckers tending to me. I was barely conscious for a long time, a fortnight they later told me. Eventually I woke, though it was another couple moons before I could even stand and walk on my own, my leg had been so busted. But I recovered, nearly back to my old self,” he patted his left thigh to prove his point.

“So you left once you were recovered?”

“No. Had nowhere to go. I stayed there, helped out the brothers, regained my strength, prayed, confessed, slept, ate… rather boring, truth be told, but boring was a nice change of pace.”

Sansa had stopped walking and was staring at him again, pretty lips parted, “You… _prayed_?”

He let out a laugh, “Aye, every day I knelt in their Sept, though between you and I, I wasn’t really praying. Mostly I just thought about the past. Sometimes I thought about nothing.”

“Which of the Seven did you kneel before?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

“Each of them got their turn, but the Stranger, mostly.”

Now Sansa laughed, and the sound of it filled Sandor’s chest with an unfamiliar emotion… _joy?_

She recovered from her amusement and continued with her questions, “It sounds like it was a nice place, a peaceful place. Why did you leave?”

_None of your concern, that’s why._

Sandor sighed, if the little bird would ever share her horrors, he must share his.

“Raiders finally found the Isle. Sacked the place, killed everyone. I only survived because I was down by the water, out of seeing and hearing distance.”

She touched his arm again, the one that Beric had burned, “That is horrible! Sandor, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t be lit- my lady. I always knew the place would fall, nothing good survives this shite excuse for a world.” He chucked a pebble he’d been fidgeting with into the ground, never breaking his stride.

“So then you sought out the Brotherhood again?”

“Huh? Oh, no. I just happened upon Beric and Thoros after I left the Isle. Just a coincidence.”

A small smile graced her mouth again, “I don’t believe in coincidences, remember?”

Sandor was uncomfortable with this, it seemed like she kept implying that he was _destined_ to be at Winterfell, and that she was _glad_ of it. That thought should have made him happy, but it just confused him. It was still bothering him that she seemed to think so fondly of him – to trust him to be alone with her – when he’d only ever been mean to her in the past.

_May never get a better opportunity to apologize. Best get it over with._

He took a deep breath and turned her to face him, though immediately regretted it as her green eyes bored right into his skull. _Fuck it, just spit it out and be done with it._

“Listen, my lady. I should have come to you right away to say this, but I’m a bloody craven.”

“What is it?”

“I need to apologize... For that night.”

She looked genuinely confused, “Which night?”

“The night of the Blackwater, the night I came to your chambers…”

“The night you came to offer to take me home?”

“The night I held a dagger to your neck, yes,” he spoke down into the ground, “I was drunk, I was angry, I was… well I was all twisted up from the fucking wildfire and from the death and the screams and…” He heard the agitation in his own voice but could not suppress it.

“I know you were,” she shrugged her shoulders as if he were telling her the most inconsequential thing – like he had just confessed that water is wet, and it frustrated him.

“I shouldn’t have come to you like that! I shouldn’t have come at all!” He held his hands out, palms down, as if to say the matter was settled, but she clearly disagreed.

She furrowed her brow as if trying to make sense of his words, “You and I seem to have different recollections of that evening. You seem to think you came there angry, that you hurt me in some way. I remember you coming there frightened, seeking comfort from a friend, and offering to help her flee her cage. If anyone should regret that night, it is _me_ – for being too _craven_ to accept your offer.”

He was dumbstruck, did she not remember him holding the dagger to her neck? Pressing her down into her mattress? Demanding from her a song?

“I scared you,” was all he said.

“I was scared, yes, but not of you. I was scared of Ser Ilyn taking my head, as Cersei promised he would. I was scared of being mistaken for a Lannister and killed when Stannis broke through. I was scared of being raped by deserting soldiers…”

“Like me?”

“No! Not you! You’d never—”

“I would. I wanted to. That’s why I came to you that night! You’re right I was seeking comfort but not the comfort you think. I was seeking the only thing that can ease a man’s bloodlust...”

“But you _didn’t_.”

“But I wanted to! That’s all that matters!”

“No it’s not! And besides, I don’t believe that’s what you wanted!”

“I’m _telling_ you it is… I mean it _was!”_

“Then you’re lying!”

“I’ve told you before, a dog will never lie to you…”

“Stop saying you’re a dog; and no, you’re not lying to me, you’re lying to _yourself_!”

That silenced him. Elder Brother had used those exact words on more occasions than Sandor could recall, yet he still denied their truth. “What part of me holding a dagger to your throat, pinning you to your bed, don’t you remember?” he growled.

She sighed the way a mother might at a petulant child, and it irked him even more.

“Sandor, have you ever lain with a woman?”

He rolled his eyes, “You think I’m a bloody green boy? I’ve had my share of whores, shouldn’t surprise you.”

“Lain with a lover, not a whore.”

“Aye, a kitchen wench or two, daring enough to try a go at the Hound.”

Sansa squeezed the bridge of her nose, “Bending a wench over a barrel is not what I’m referring to.”

Sandor’s jaw dropped. _Did Sansa Stark just say those words?_ He shook off his awe, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m no woman’s fantasy. Now will you get to your point, if you have one?”

For the umpteenth time she sighed, as if her _point_ should be obvious to him. “I admit the night you’re referring to confused me for a time. I was inexperienced and naïve. Frankly, I wondered if that’s how men always pursue a woman they desire, but I didn’t think that was so. Your _actions_ were impure, but your heart was not. I believe you did come seeking a woman’s comfort, but you had no concept of how to ask for it, having no experience in the domain.”

His heart was pounding in his chest, screaming that she was right, that this young woman somehow knew him better than anyone. But his mind, deeply entrenched with self-hatred, would not allow him to believe her words, “You’re stupid to think you know my _intent_. You should judge me only by my actions, as I hope you judge others, lest you’ll put your _trust_ in the wrong people.”

Now she was the one agitated by his words, as she drove a bony finger into his chest. “I don’t need a _lesson_ in the _dangers_ of trusting the _wrong_ people, I’ve learned that lesson _many_ times over.” Each emphasized word was accompanied by a jab in his chest, and each jab forced him backward as if it was being delivered by a giant, not a slender woman. “I’ve also _learned_ what it feels like when a man _takes_ what isn’t being _offered_. When his _intent_ is to _hurt_ , not to hold.”

She was seething now but continued speaking in a frigid tone, “So if _you_ want to believe that you came to _hurt_ me that night, that’s _your_ business. But don’t _ever_ try to convince me of that lie. I’ve been disappointed by enough men in my life, but you were _never_ one of them.”

She had him backed up to a wall, literally and figuratively, and he was powerless to do anything. If she drew her dagger and moved to split open his chest and pull out his black heart, he’d have let her; Hells _,_ he’d help her do it.

Agonizing seconds passed before her ire abruptly gave way to something else. Her hand dropped and the finger she’d just used to bore a hole into his chest traced the faintest trail from his wrist to the tip of his thumb. That light touch made him jerk, made his hairs stand on end, and she noticed it.

She shook her head, “No. No, it’s _not_ enough for you to never tell that lie to me. I need you to know… tell me you know you’d never hurt me – now _or_ then.” She was still looking at his hand, where the tip of her finger hung not even an inch from his own.

He would give her the words. She needed to hear them, and he needed to say them. The part of him that didn’t believe them had seemingly evaporated in the last two minutes.

“I’d never have hurt you, and I never will.”

Her head rose to meet his eyes, searching for evidence of deceit, but he knew there was none to be found. “Good night Sandor,” she said, and just like the other night she disappeared through the doorway without pause.

“Good night, little bird.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

Sandor was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow that evening – or morning, more accurately. He dreamt of the night of the Blackwater, as he had countless times before – unable to escape his fear and guilt even in slumber. Only this night it wasn’t a dagger he held to her throat, but the stem of a pale blue rose. And when he asked for a song, she gave him only a kiss.


	12. The Hound's Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor prepares for the first wagon shipment

**Sandor**

At the training yard the next day Sandor set the men to some exercises. He tasked two guards with teaching Cris and Brant the basics of swordplay, dagger fighting, and even archery. He didn’t need them to be proficient, just passable: a man never knows what weapon he may need to pick up and fight with during a skirmish.

While the men were training Sandor sat at a table and began considering measures to better protect the wagons. He could have the twelve greatest warriors in Westeros, but it would be useless if their assailants could pick them off with arrows while remaining hidden in the trees. Sandor had two critical problems to solve: keep the men relatively shielded from arrow attacks, and figure out how to pursue, chase off, or flush out the well-hidden attackers.

_Would be nice to have hunting hounds for the latter._ Just then it occurred to Sandor that Winterfell _might_ have hounds. On his first day here, as he waited to face Sansa’s judgment, he heard her tell a petitioner that she didn’t have need for a kennel master. At the time Sandor had assumed it was because she didn’t have any hounds, but perhaps it was because she already had a kennel master.

Sandor shouted over to Poole who stood only a few yards away, “Ay, Ser, do we have hunting hounds at Winterfell?”

The man went green, “Best talk to Queen Sansa about that.”

_Curious reaction._

Knowing Sansa would still be sleeping then at court he set his mind to the first task: shield the men and horses from the arrows. He’d make sure all the horses and men had chainmail. He made a mental note to check with the armory and stables after lunch when another idea struck him. “Ser Poole, did the raiders ever aim to take out your horses?”

“I don’t believe so, no.”

It was as Sandor suspected – horses were rare and coveted after the war, they’d be stolen but even a scoundrel would make every attempt not to kill or maim a horse if it could be avoided.

Sandor shouted some commands at his men then next went off in search of the carpenters. After inquiring with a few laborers he found the Head Carpenter – an aging but well-built man named Lewis Strong. The man was missing the first knuckle on each of two fingers on his left hand – the inevitable cost of his trade. The man was shouting orders but looked like he’d rather be doing all the work himself than correcting the mistakes of so many apprentices. Sandor asked him for parchment and pencil but Strong only rolled his eyes before handing him a pencil and a small scrap of wood.

“My thanks,” Sandor grumbled. He then made a crude drawing of a wagon with walls on each side and a gate on the back. Each wall would consist of horizontal planks of wood with an inch for airflow between each plank. The two planks about halfway up would have about six inches between them to allow men to look out and shoot through, but still be a fairly small target for a far-off bowman. On either side of the driver similar wooden walls would extend out. They would block his peripheral vision but also block incoming arrows.

Strong scratched his chin as he studied the drawing, “Too much weight over the wheels.”

“The rails don’t need to be thick. Plane the wood thin, it only needs to stop arrows, not axe or sword.”

“No roof?”

“Not needed. We’ll put the tarp over top, but have the sides hang _inside_ the walls so they can be rolled up when we need to look out or get air.”

“How many?”

“Two wagons like this, the other wagons that haul supplies don’t need protection, only my men do. Just add the protection for the driver to the other wagons.”

Sandor envisioned his group of twelve men split between two wagons – one at the front and one at the rear of the procession. The supply wagon or wagons, depending on the size of the haul, would be in between and covered only with canvas tarps.

It was a bit of a risk – having the men travel by wagon instead of horseback would make it difficult for them to flee – but Sandor had no intention of fleeing. By keeping his men in the safety of the two fortified wagons it would force the bandits to engage them with steel in order to take the wagons. Even if the bandits tried to reach the supply wagons and lead away the horses they’d be blocked – the King’s Road wasn’t wide enough in the north to allow two wagons side-by-side.

“Alright, give us a sennight.”

“I need them in four days.” Strong frowned but Sandor raised his hands innocently, “Queen’s orders.”

\------------------------------------------------

It was late afternoon when he found the little bird in the small solar off the Great Hall, just as he’d expected. She was writing in some ledger but closed it upon his entrance. He once again declined the offered wine, instead opting for water. “Hello Sandor, are you here to update me on your training?”

“I wasn’t, but I will. It’s going well, the men are capable enough, and I’ve given the carpenter orders to fortify some of the wagons with… well, I won’t bore you with the details, but I think it’ll work. If it doesn’t, you’ll have no one to blame but me.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” she replied, though as usual showed no sign of said pleasure. “So then, what _is_ your purpose in seeking me?”

“I want to borrow the hunting hounds for the wagon trips. Poole said you’re the person to speak with.”

She stared at him blankly.

“You have hounds here, yes?

She took a deep breath through her nose before replying, “That is a complicated situation.”

He furrowed his brow. “I heard you tell the old man in court that you’ve no need for a kennel master.”

“That is true.”

“So you _have_ a kennel master, then?”

“No; it’s true that we don’t need one.”

Sandor rubbed the lines in his forehead, “Is this a riddle?”

She tapped her sharp fingernails against her desk, biting her lip nervously.

“A _secret_ then?” he asked, only half in jest.

Another moment of her silent deliberation passed before she abruptly reached into a drawer and withdrew a key. “Come with me.”

He followed her to the kitchens where she nodded at a man in a bloodied apron – the butcher, Sandor assumed. A moment later the man returned with a large canvas bag, earning his queen’s thanks.

Without explanation she walked straight out of the building across the courtyard, and toward the kennels. She stopped outside the door and turned to face Sandor. “These hounds belonged to Ramsay.”

He shrugged, “Makes sense.”

“His treatment of them was… unkind. Put simply, he made them into maneaters.”

Her eyes darted away a moment and her mask almost slipped off, but she continued. “When we took Winterfell, everyone told me to kill them. No one could get near them, they were vicious, aggressive, unreceptive to human kindness…” She spoke deliberately, as if trying to convey some deeper meaning, “…but I couldn’t bring myself to kill them, or even give the orders. I know it makes me soft, but these dogs were not _born_ mean. They were _made_ mean – by exposure to extreme cruelty.”

_They remind her of me._

“Ramsay was the only person who could handle them. The only person they wouldn’t tear to pieces. In his presence they would only attack when ordered to do so. Without him, they would attack anything in sight. He controlled them, and he alone.”

_Like you alone control me, though you don’t even know it._

“So every day I came here, and still do, reckless as it seems. For the first three fortnights I didn’t even open their cages, I only fed them through the bars. Eventually they didn’t growl or even bark at my arrival, some of them even looked _happy_ to see me… so I opened those cages. Little by little each dog came to trust me, or at least not try to kill me. Maybe it helped that they’d seen me with Ramsay…” she trailed off.

“So now _you_ can control them?”

She shrugged, “I don’t know _how_ to control them. If I were to let them out right now, I don’t trust that I could stop them from attacking anyone.”

_I don’t like where this is going…_

“But I remember your grandfather was kennel master for Casterly Rock,” she looked up at him, timidly, “and you said you grew up with dogs, that you like them, they like you…”

“My lady, those were dogs raised from pups to _trust_ people, to _serve_ people. These hounds,” he gestured at the door, “were raised to _kill_ people… I’m sorry, but once a hound has tasted man flesh, the most humane thing you can do is kill it.”

_Don’t say what you’re about to say._

She said it. “ _You_ were raised to kill. You’ve tasted _man flesh_ , so to speak. You once told me killing is the sweetest thing there is, but you stand before me changed, at least somewhat.”

“But I’m a man, not a dog!”

_Oops._ He felt like a rabbit in a snare, a fish on a hook. This time her mask did slip, and behind it was the smuggest grin he’d ever seen her wear. She let him sweat for a moment before the unavoidable came, “Can you speak up, I didn’t hear you?”

“Hah fucking hah.” Her grin only widened.

As she unlocked the door behind which lived ten angry hounds, she offered some advice, “You’ll know better than I, but it seems best if you try not to be afraid...”

_That easy, huh?_

“…I know this because, as a measure of their progress, I’ve brought two people here, separately. Of course I left the gates latched. Our Castellan stayed fairly calm, they looked at him warily but only a couple growled or barked.”

“And the other person?”

She let out a breath, “Ser Poole was less… _at ease_ – and the hounds could sense it. They barked and snarled so much that we gave up and left. Though he admitted afterwards he was bit as a child and has always feared dogs. The poor man; he ought to have told me that when I asked for his assistance.”

_That’s because no one can deny you, little bird._

“Then give me a moment,” he stilled her hand which still rested on the now-unlocked knob.” He took a deep breath, cracked his neck, shook out his arms, and checked to make sure both longsword and dagger were securely in his belt.”

She looked amused but mocked him no more. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, let’s get this over with.”

In truth, Sandor was quite adept at vanquishing fear, he’d only let the skill get a bit rusty in the past few years. In the past, before every battle, he would steel himself, evicting all traces of fear from his mind. He could smell fear, and would capitalize on it, which meant his enemies could, too. Better to be feared than afraid; better to be predator than prey.

Sansa led him inside and he noticed that she too showed no sign of dread. She might have been entering a nursery as she beamed at the large mastiffs – five on the left, five on the right. “Hello, my good men, it seems pork is on the menu tonight, which means you get your _favorite_ treat.” She reached into the bag and withdrew a pig’s foot. _My favorite treat too, maybe I_ am _just another one of her hounds._

“Now don’t make a fuss, but I’ve brought a friend to meet you. I think you’ll find he’s pleasant company, _when he wants to be._ ”

He suspected her playful tone was to keep herself calm as much as it was to keep the dogs calm, but he didn’t mock her for it was also succeeding in keeping _him_ calm. _Bugger me! I really_ am _one of her dogs!_

The dogs were quiet but alert, eyes darting between their mistress and her unfamiliar companion.

Before he realized what she was doing, she dropped the pig’s foot into his hand. “It needs your scent.” He knew she meant to take it back and feed the dogs herself, introducing them to his scent gradually, but he had more expeditious plans in mind.

“Touch all of them, little bird. I’ll feed the hounds.”

She looked concerned but only shrugged, “They’re your fingers.”

“Hah, you hear that, boys? Your mistress thinks she’s funny. And apparently, she doesn’t have much faith in you. But I know good dogs when I see them, and you are good dogs, you’ve just forgotten it. Lucky for you the _Queen in the North_ has a soft spot for nasty, beat up old hounds, even when all the thanks she gets is a snarl.” Sandor was observing the dogs as he spoke, not letting his eyes linger on any one for too long – dogs like these would take that as a challenge. The dog that seemed most relaxed was rewarded with the first pig’s foot.

“Here you go, boy.” The dog took it greedily through the bars. “Well you’ve got good taste, best part of the animal, you ask me.” He took the next foot from Sansa.

“My thanks, Lady Stark. Let’s remember our manners, boys: don’t forget to thank the sponsor of our feast!” He gave the tasty morsel to the next most subdued dog, repeating the process eight more times, all the while talking to the dogs as Sansa had done. Only one of the dogs growled, earning itself Sandor’s mock insult, “Now, now; you’re hurting my feelings! Save those snarls for _Brienne_ of Tarth.”

At that Sansa chuckled, “You’re supposed to be teaching them to be _nice_. They don’t need another bad influence.”

Sandor brushed his hands on his breeches, addressing the dogs and Sansa both, “You told me these were vicious hounds, all I see is a bunch of sweet little puppy dogs.”

Sansa followed his lead, continuing the discussion while addressing the dogs, “Well you didn’t see them four moons ago. It seems their manners are much improved since then.”

“No surprise there, they’re learning from the most courteous little lady in the Seven Kingdoms…” without changing his tone, he gave her an instruction, “Don’t say ‘no’, little bird, open that cage on the left, the black one with the white patch on his chest.”

She turned her head sharply but kept her composure. “Seems _fingers_ aren’t the only part our new friend is willing to part with.” Her eyes begged him to change his mind, but her legs walked toward the indicated cage and opened the gate. The dog walked out tentatively, licking Sansa’s hand.

“Now walk to me, girl, stand close.” She complied. The dog followed, ears twitching with alertness. Sandor did not move but kept talking to Sansa calmly as the dog cautiously extended its neck to sniff Sandor’s hand.

“Do they know any commands?”

“Many, but I’ve only tried sit and lay down.”

“Sit,” Sandor stated, calm but assertive. The dog sat.

“Good boy – oh, my apologies! Good _girl!”_

One by one they let out each dog until they stood surrounded by hounds. Even the one that had growled at Sandor – a large brindle with nasty scar on his head – approached Sandor and Sansa, though kept a fair distance back unlike the other dogs. Sandor observed the scar and wondered what creature or person had inflicted it. He laughed at the idea that the dog might be wondering the same of him.

Sansa’s voice interrupted his thoughts, “You’re making a liar of me, boys. Sandor must think I only _imagined_ that you were bloodthirsty beasts.”

“No, I just think your intelligence and patience paid off.” For the first time since they’d entered, he looked into her eyes instead of at the dogs, “You did good with them. It was smart to take your time, be the one to feed them, give them a chance to realize you’re not their enemy.”

“Or their meal.”

He chuckled, “Aye, or that.”

Together they coaxed each dog back into its cage, rewarding their obedience with another pig foot or ham bone once the feet were gone.

The walked out and Sansa locked the door. She took him around the back of the building to show him the fenced yard. “The other door leads out here, but I’ve not had the courage to bring them out. I’m afraid they’ll get loose, or that I simply won’t be able to corral them back inside, but if you’re willing to try…”

“Aye, I think it’ll be alright, bring them out in small groups to start, two or three at a time.”

“So you’ll do it, then? Train them I mean?”

“ _We’ll_ do it… at least for now. Tonight went well but you’re the one they know and trust. It may have been only your presence that kept them from feasting on me instead of swine scraps…”

His eyes looked worried as he continued, “Only problem I see is whatever words Ramsay used to command them we don’t know, ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ are obvious, but every master uses secret words for commands like pursue, attack, kill, return…”

Sansa spoke quietly out into the night, “I know those commands.”

_Has she seen him train them? Or did he take her hunting?_ Sandor’s stomach clenched. _She said they were maneaters…_

Sandor had enough sense not to ask. “That’s good, write down the commands for me, when you have the opportunity.” _When it doesn’t pain you to do so._

Sansa handed him the key, to his confusion. “What’s this for? I said we should do it together.”

“And we will, at first, but they’re yours, Sandor. That is, if you want them.”

He stared at her as if she had gifted him solid gold armor. He’d been here only a few days and already she gave him an important position and now was, in essence, making him kennel master – entrusting him with hounds that were, quite literally, deadly weapons. He felt it only proper to object, “They belong to you, you’ve put in the time, my lady.”

“As will you.” She hesitated, “Besides, I’ll never be able to use them for their intended purpose.”

He knew there were things she wasn’t saying, but he didn’t press.

“My thanks. I’ll put them to good use. I’ll serve Winterfell with them, my lady.”

She stared at him, “In there, you called me ‘little bird’.”

_Did I?_ “I didn’t notice. I apologize for the breach in etiquette, my lady.”

“Don’t. It doesn’t bother me… except, best to only say it when we’re alone.”

_And how often will that be?_

“I will.”

“Thank you for… well, for risking bodily injury to help with the hounds.”

“It was nothing.” Suddenly he felt awkward in her presence and looked for something less personal to discuss. “Shall I escort you to the dining hall, my lady?”

“That’s kind of you to offer, but I’m going to freshen up first; I don’t think a _queen_ should smell of pig’s feet and dog breath.”

Sandor chuckled, glad they could now part company. “Well, good evening then.” He turned and strode away, knowing she was watching him.


	13. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa each think about the other

**Sansa**

The next day, about an hour after court, Sandor met Sansa in her solar and they ventured together to the kennels after a brief stop at the kitchens.

They gave all the dogs their treat, but only let the three best-behaved out of their cages, and after they each complied with Sandor’s basic commands of ‘sit’, ‘stay’, and ‘down’, they opened the back door to lead the dogs into the enclosed yard. They let the dogs run about for several minutes to expend their long-pent-up energy. As the dogs began to tire and pant, Sandor called them over and repeated the basic commands, getting complete obedience.

Sansa literally jumped up and down with delight but composed herself when Sandor laughed at her. Then realization struck her, “How will you test the dogs with the more… _serious_ commands?” She’d never seen Ramsay train them, only hunt with them. _How do you train a dog to attack without hurting the person you’re using to do the training?_

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to test them in those until… well… Anyway, this is just to see that they listen to me, that they will do what I command, which, so far, they are.”

“But if someone else were out here with us how do you know they’d listen to you then?”

“You either control a dog or it controls you. A dog doesn’t choose which commands to obey, it either obeys you or it doesn’t.”

Sansa nodded. It seemed to make sense, but also seemed risky, “So you intend to take them with you if you go out on the wagon trips?”

“Perhaps, but only three or four, the ones who listen to my commands every time, without resistance.”

“So you’re _going_ then, on the next trip?”

“Aye… isn’t that what I just said?”

“Yes, I just… I didn’t think you’d go, I thought you’d just do the training and… and send the men out.”

He eyed her curiously, “You said I could go with them or not. Do you have a problem with me going, my lady?”

_Yes, I don’t want you getting hurt._

“No problem, just… surprised.”

“Aye. Well I’m not always going to have to go, the idea is to get to where they don’t need me, but that will take few runs, I imagine.”

“I see, that makes sense.”

But he seemed to think more explanation was needed, “If we thwart enough attacks, kill enough of the fuckers, then they should give up altogether and move onto easier prey.”

“I should hope.”

She couldn’t shake the feeling of dread at the idea of him leaving. _This is silly, he has survived more battles and fights than probably any other man in Westeros. He doesn’t need me fretting over him._

“Shall we put the dogs back? It’s nearly supper time, and I’d like to wash up beforehand.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

\----------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

He paced his small room. _This is ridiculous. Just go to sleep. You don’t need to follow her about every night!_

But he wanted to. He wanted to see her again before going to sleep. At the evening meal she sat at the head of the hall, always keeping the company of some _honored_ retainer. Someone whose efforts of the day were being rewarded with the attention of his or her queen. How they were selected Sandor did not know. He only knew that he felt inexplicably angry watching her banter with some toothless old bugger, some lowborn wench, or – worst of all – some handsome young guard.

_If you keep meeting her in the Glass Gardens, she’ll know you’re doing it on purpose. Twice is coincidence, but three times…_

He thought of her words from a few evenings ago, the way she insisted on making him admit that he’d never hurt her.

_She wants to build me up to be a bloody Septon. She should know by now I’m not!_

He forced himself to sit down on the edge of the bed, though his feet kept tapping on the floor, unwilling to stop moving.

_She’s young and naïve, she’s built you up in her head as some type of knight because you were the closest thing she had to one, pathetic as it sounds._

But she didn’t sound naïve. She spoke the same way Elder Brother spoke, and he was the wisest man Sandor had ever met.

_You may have more than a decade on her, but she’s a hundred times smarter than you were at her age._

He rose and paced again, taking a swig from the wineskin he’d been trying to ignore. _Sit here all night, it doesn’t matter if you don’t sleep a wink, just don’t go out that door. Don’t seek her out._

He stilled himself again, took deep breaths, and thought about his plans for the wagons, which only reminded him of her. _What was that in the yard today with the dogs? Why did she look so disappointed to hear you’ll be going on the wagon run?_

He didn’t allow himself to think it was because she might miss him while he’s gone, or that she might worry about his safety. He was a man no one missed, and no one worried for.

_But how else do you explain it?_

_It doesn’t matter, it isn’t_ that _. She has her reasons, maybe she’s afraid of losing your sword. Maybe she knows eventually she’ll need you to protect more than just her bloody wagons._

That must be it. She knew of his fighting skills. He was worth ten of any other soldier. She was starting to regret assigning him to this _wagon detail._

_And then there was your dream… in which she kissed you._ The dream had felt so real that he awoke and immediately pressed two fingers to his lips as if looking for evidence that her lips had been there. Her lips were so soft, so gentle, so… _willing_. So unlike anything some well-paid whore had ever dared. In the dream her kiss was both comforting and thrilling, she was simultaneously easing his pain and replacing it with lust.

Never would he have believed anything but a pair of well-formed teats or a plump bottom could make him this aroused, but here he sat on the edge of his mattress, hard as a rock at the thought of a simple kiss from Sansa fucking Stark.

It shamed him to find his hands unlacing his breeches. She was too innocent to defile, even in his mind. _But you already have, what’s one more time?_

It was true, on the Quiet Isle he tried desperately to think about _anyone_ else – or even no one – when he took himself in hand. But it was only ever _her_ that graced his fantasies.

It wouldn’t take him long, he knew. He laid back on the mattress and turned his face into his pillow, imagining it was her tender young breasts. When he shuddered his release it was her name on his lips, whispered into the emptiness of his room.


	14. Walk with Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another midnight stroll

**Sandor**

The next day was much like the one before it. He spent all day training his men, pausing only for a brief midday meal. The men got an early reprieve when he gathered them around to discuss the plans for their upcoming wagon trip. By the late afternoon he and Sansa were in the yard with four hounds. She was quieter than normal, seemingly distracted, though he didn’t bother to inquire as to her woes. They parted ways just before the evening meal.

During the meal he chanced a few glances in her direction, and each time she was silent, looking distantly at nothing in particular.

That night he knew he’d not be able to resist the temptation to look for her in the gardens, so just around midnight he donned his cloak and headed there but found them empty. He walked the rows only a few minutes before he heard the door open. He turned to look at her and was alarmed to see her eyes, red-rimmed from crying. Upon seeing him she immediately turned to leave but he called out, “Little bird.” She paused but didn’t turn around, even as he approached her.

He wanted to comfort her, to touch her shoulder or say some soothing words, but he was out of his depth. His hands were made for killing, his tongue for spewing insults. She seemed to sense his concern though as she responded, “I’m fine”.

Finally words came to him, “Did something happen?”

She shook her head.

“Did someone say something to you?”

“No Sandor.”

“Ghosts, then?”

She exhaled, “I suppose, yes.”

He hesitated, looking down at his feet. He couldn’t fight ghosts for her, but he could distract her from them, “The plants… you’ve got ‘em spoiled. I tried talking to them, but they want you. Guess I’m better with dogs.”

She turned and forced a smile to thank him for his effort, but he could see she was still troubled.

He sighed, “You want to be alone then?”

She shook her head and began walking down the aisle, and he joined her.

“Tell me a story? Something happy, or funny…”

“You’ve got the wrong man for that,” he snorted, but the disappointment on her face made him try. “I suppose I can tell you tell you about the time your little shite of a sister got me in a tavern brawl against the King’s men.”

“She did?!”

He nodded, “Aye, five to one, when I was weak with hunger no less, all because she wanted to retrieve her little _needle.”_

“The men had it?”

“One of them. I forget his name, not that it matters much now.”

“How did he come to have her sword?”

“I don’t bloody know, little bird, he stole it from her at some point. And don’t call that dainty little thing a sword.” He saw her smirk out of the corner of his eye, and it encouraged him to continue.

“Anyway, we spotted them outside the tavern, pissing right out front like a bunch of savages, and she spotted her needle on the one man’s belt. I told her to stay back, that there were too many, but before I could stop her, she strode right in, like she had an army behind her.”

“Sounds like Arya.”

“Aye, all balls and no brains.”

At that Sansa giggled, “But obviously you prevailed. What happened?”

“Ahh the greasy bugger kept pestering me, recognized me as the Hound, tried to convince me to join their little party of raping and raiding, wouldn’t share their chickens, said something crude about your little sister, and, well… I guess you can figure out the rest.”

“You fought them all yourself? All five?”

“Aye, your sister helped a bit, busted one over the head with a bowl or vase or something. Stabbed another.”

Sansa looked momentarily surprised before nodding, “She never did back down from a fight.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Easy to start a fight when you’ve got me to finish it for you.”

“Good to know, would’ve come in handy for me.”

Sandor stopped in his tracks, “When did _you_ ever start a fight, little bird?”

She shrugged self-consciously, “Well, not a _fight_ , a battle.”

He stared at her, mouth agape. He heard that she and her bannermen fought to take back Winterfell, but somehow hearing her say the words made it real for him.

“Sounds like you should be the one telling me a story.”

She shrugged, “Not much to tell.”

“I doubt that very much, but it’s alright girl, you don’t have to tell me.”

_But it would be nice if you did._

Suddenly she gasped, “Look! We finally have a ripe strawberry!”

“Never seen someone so excited over a piece of fruit.”

“Not just any fruit, a _strawberry_.”

“So? What’s so great about a strawberry?”

Now she stared at him, stunned, “Sandor… have you never had a strawberry?”

“Not big on sweets.”

“But it’s not sweet like candy, it’s sweet and tart and juicy and perfect.”

“They don’t feed dogs delicacies like strawberries, girl. Men need meat to stay big and strong, strawberries are for ladies and fat merchants who never lift a finger.”

“Well you’re not a dog anymore, remember? And you’re plenty big and strong, one strawberry isn’t going to change that. Here,” she plucked the red fruit off the vine and held it out to him.

He shook his head, “You eat it, little bird. Something so fine as you describe it is wasted on my taste buds.”

“Take it, I insist,” she still held it out, trying to get him to take it.

“I don’t want the bloody thing! When a juicy chicken leg or mutton chop grows on that vine, then you can give it to me.”

She frowned, undeterred, and held it up to his mouth. “I order you to take a bite of this strawberry.”

_She’s going to feed you fruit out of her hand. Eat the fucking thing so you can die happy!_

He finally relented, self-conscious of his burned lips as he took a bite of the proffered treat. He chewed it purposefully and tried to resist smiling as he realized it was as delicious as promised.

She grinned widely, “You like it, don’t you?”

“It’s not bad.” _It’s the most wonderful thing I’ve ever eaten, because you touched it._

To his surprise she took a bite herself before tossing the remaining stem on the ground. The idea of their lips meeting even in that indirect way made his cock twitch. Later, when he took himself in hand for the second night in a row, it wasn’t a strawberry he pictured in the little bird’s mouth.


	15. Preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor prepares to depart on a mission

**Sandor**

Sandor’s men did only light training the morning of their departure. Just before midday he commanded them to retire to their quarters and rest. They’d leave after the evening meal and travel through the night. Traveling by wagon they could take turns resting, but wagons were not known for comfort, and he doubted the men would be able to sleep on the ride out, much less the ride back. They’d go a full day without sleep, which was nothing to Sandor – during a siege he’d once gone three days without a wink of sleep – but he had to remind himself that these men were not soldiers. Some of them had seen battle but it was a brief one – the _Battle for the North_ , they called it – when Sansa retook her home. The rest were young men who’d come to Winterfell seeking work in the past few months of Sansa’s reign.

Sandor was also a bit troubled that a few of them had never killed a man. He worried they might hesitate to strike down an opponent, and Sandor had seen his share of men die on the battlefield because of nothing more than a second’s hesitation.

At this point all he could do was hope that their training would serve them well and that their survival instinct would overcome any fear of taking a life; if it did for highborn ladies like Sansa and Arya Stark then it must apply to these men, as well. Lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice Cris and Brant approaching. Brant got Sandor’s attention, “San- Commander, you haven’t quite explained why _we’re_ here. What our jobs are, I mean… Surely there are two other men better with a bow or sword.” It was odd to see such burly men look insecure, but that is exactly how Sandor would define their expressions.

“I’ve seen you swing the sledge; it’ll kill just as well as a sword and even better than a bow.”

They looked unconvinced, so Sandor continued. “I don’t just intend to defend the wagons; I intend to scare the rotten thieves shitless, so they think twice before trying such a thing again. Let the word spread that Queen Sansa has a bunch of rabid brutes killing to protect what’s hers.”

The men finally grinned. Cris spoke, “So if fightin’ breaks out, you want us to… act crazed?”

Sandor shook his head, “You’re not pair of bloody mummers, just swing at bone like it’s rock… though I suppose a few growls wouldn’t hurt either.” It then occurred to him that he was assuming these rough-looking men had done some fighting and killing in their day. He was judging them the way everyone judged him after one look at his scars and his size. He lowered his voice so the other men couldn’t hear, “Has either of you killed a man before?”

His assumption was correct as a mischievous grin spread over Brant’s face while Cris answered for them both, parroting the common phrase of court, “We exert our right against self-incrimination.”

“Fair enough,” Sandor didn’t want to think about who or whom they had killed, though he felt slightly unnerved. Had these men been rapers or creepers before? Sandor told himself it didn’t matter, they were obviously abiding by the Queen’s laws, and he had yet to hear either make a lewd remark about a passing washerwoman, as some of the other men did.

To confirm their understanding, before departing the training yard Brant said, “So we swing our sledges, kill any fuckers that come near, and if we look a little extra frightening it won’t hurt.”

Sandor nodded before remembering the most important part, “Oh, and if one of the wagon’s gets stuck, I’ll need you to help lift it.”

The men blinked at him as he walked off to his own quarters, where he rested but did not sleep. A familiar but forgotten feeling crept into his chest. In the hours of _waiting_ before every battle one can’t help but think about the very real possibility of death. Sandor imagined most men were frightened during this time – thinking of the families they’d leave behind, worrying whether they would die swiftly or painfully, hoping they’d find themselves in the Heavens not the Hells afterward. Sandor had none of those fears – he had no family to worry after, he didn’t fear pain (except burning), and he had come to accept an eternity in Hells was awaiting him.

No, during those restless hours Sandor only ever felt _anxious_ for the fighting to commence. He despised waiting – always had – it was what made guarding the King so bloody excruciating. He had secretly been glad the day the riots broke out in King’s Landing, his sword hand had been itching to kill something. He had been relishing every second right up until the moment he heard the Imp ask aloud, _“Where is Lady Sansa?”_ That was when panic set in along with that inconvenient feeling he wasn’t equipped to handle: _fear_. But it was not fear for himself, it was fear for _her_. He pictured her little body on the ground, beaten, bloodied, and defiled. His head swiveled wildly, looking for her white horse, for her red hair. When he found it, he charged toward it without hesitation, letting Stranger do what he did best – trample lesser creatures under his massive hooves. She was unharmed though wouldn’t be for long – several men had surrounded her horse and were grabbing her. For her part she was kicking as best she could while balancing atop the horse. When a filthy hand gripped her wrist tightly and began pulling Sandor did not blink before bringing his sword down at the owner’s elbow. The bloody arm still gripped her wrist for a moment before falling to the ground. He cut open another man, then another before the rest retreated, wisely. It happened so quickly that when he finally made eye contact with the little bird, she looked more confused than terrified. He scooped her up with his left arm and placed her on the saddle in front of him. His sword was still drawn while the arm around her waist held the reins, though Stranger needed little guidance. The sea of filthy peasants parted way for the Hound and his warhorse, and in only a minute they were safely back inside, surrounded by Kingsguard and Gold Cloaks. Some guard came to help Sansa down, but she held firmly to Sandor’s waist, and it was then that he realized he didn’t _want_ her to let go. He let her hold on a few seconds before prying her shaking hands off of his armor – it would earn her no favors with Joffrey to be seen clutching his sworn shield like he was her knight in shining armor, even though, at least that day, he’d been just that.

Sandor willed away the memory. It was painful to think about that day, for multiple reasons. In the years since, Sandor’s dreams had been haunted on more than one occasion by the image of what he’d have found if he’d been a minute too late. By day, his thoughts were haunted by something else: the indisputable knowledge that from that day forward he knew _he was hers_ , even if she’d never be his.

Now he sat in his quarters, feeling that old familiar pre-battle anxiety, though in years past this wagon guard detail would hardly have registered as a ‘battle’ for him. Still, men had been killed on this route before, and Sandor was too much of a realist to ever presume easy victory.

He knew by the angle of the sun it was late afternoon, and he now had an important affair to see to, so he headed to Sansa’s solar next to the Great Hall. Her door was closed so he waited outside. After a few minutes the Castellan emerged, and Sandor gave him a slight nod before entering.

In the times he’d sought her out in the past several days he always expected her to look like the little bird. It would take some time before he’d get accustomed to being greeted by the stoic Queen. As usual, she offered him wine and a seat. He took the latter but not the former.

Today she stared at him, clearly waiting for him to start, so he did, “I believe you know we leave tonight just after supper. If all goes well, we should be home by supper tomorrow. If we encounter any problems, it might be later.”

She only nodded.

He cleared his throat, “I thought I should tell you: I’ll not be taking any dogs this time. I think they’d be fine, but I’d rather try them on a hunt close to Winterfell first. I need to be sure that once they get excited, they can still differentiate friend from foe. If one of our men gets bit, I’d rather it be here, near the maester, then out there on the road.”

She nodded again, but her silence was beginning to make him feel uneasy.

“As I said, I don’t think that will happen, but I prefer to be over-cautious than over-confident.”

Finally she spoke, “I agree.”

Her coldness made Sandor question what he was about to do next, but it could not be delayed, “Might I borrow a sheet of parchment and quill?”

She stared at him a moment before handing him the requested items. He nodded his thanks then leaned over her desk and began writing. After a few minutes he handed her back the items. He pointed his chin at the parchment, “It’s just a precaution. Don’t be troubled, I don’t expect anything to go wrong. In fact I’m quite optimistic, I’m just a man who likes to be prepared for any possible outcome, and I figure you can use the coin.” Her eyes moved down to read the parchment, making Sandor feel ashamed of his unrefined penmanship.

_\-------------_

_5 June 302_

_Last Will and Testament of Sandor of House Clegane:_

_Of sound mind and under no influence or persuasion, I, Sandor Clegane, instruct that all my assets and possessions listed below, as well as any I should acquire after the date of this document, be transferred to Lady Sansa of House Stark, in the event of my demise:_

_Balance of Iron Bank Account No. 45608, approx. 47,000 gold dragons as of this date_

_One Warhorse, “Stranger”, to be used or gifted at Lady Stark’s discretion, or disposed of humanely and buried – not to be eaten unless the need is dire._

_One Longsword, identifiable by tapered black grip and studded bronze pommel, to be used, gifted, or melted down at Lady Stark’s discretion._

_One Dagger, identifiable by carved handle bearing the Three Hounds sigil of House Clegane, to remain in Lady Stark’s possession if it please her._

_In regards my final disposal: I wish for my body to be buried or entombed. Or thrown into river or sea – any means is acceptable except burning. Leave me to the crows before feeding me to the flames._

_Contract above shall remain in effect in perpetuity._

_Sandor Clegane_

_House Clegane_

_\-------------_

As her eyes peered into his, he foolishly expected her to say something sentimental, but she did not, “That is quite a large sum; perhaps you wish to amend the duration of this contract or add a clause that would transfer the funds and possessions to any future wife or heir.”

He shrugged, trying to hide his disappointment, “Don’t plan on having a family, and in the unlikely event that I do, I trust you will distribute my assets fairly.”

She nodded, folded the parchment and tucked it into a drawer. “I will see your will done.”

_So that’s it then? No ‘thanks for trusting me with your only possessions’? No ‘please don’t die, Sandor’?_

At least she had the decency to rise when he did. “In case I don’t see you at supper, I wish you and your men safe travels. Please extend to them by blessings and my gratitude.”

“Thank you, my lady. I’ll do that.” He bowed and exited, refusing to give her another second of his time or thoughts.


	16. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wagon detail returns with an injured member

**Sansa**

Sansa pushed the food around her plate nervously. She’d only eaten a few small bites to deter any servants from worrying over her wellness. It was evening meal the day after Sandor’s group departed. If there was no trouble they should have been back by this time.

 _A wagon could have lost a wheel, a horse could have popped a splint. Perhaps the shipment was particularly heavy and slowed their pace..._ There were countless reasons for them to be late, but Sansa couldn’t help but feel sick with dread at the possibility of them being attacked.

Adding to her apprehension was a feeling of shame that, despite her best efforts, she found herself worrying only about Sandor. Two wagons brimming with much-needed (and expensive) supplies, and twelve loyal young men, but her mind kept coming back to _him._ It was maddening as it was perplexing. She was, of course, worried that he’d be hurt, or worse yet, killed; yet another fear plagued her… _What if he comes back_ different?

In his brief time at Winterfell she had enough interactions with him to know he had evolved in the past few years. He still _looked_ rough and mean, with words to match – and to anyone who hadn’t known him before he undoubtedly seemed every bit the _Hound_ – but she saw in him now a peace that was never there before. He now had a certain tenderness, an ability to sympathize. He seemed to no longer crave violence, though she was clueless as to what now gave his life meaning as hate and brutality once had.

She learned long ago that Sandor Clegane was much more complex than anyone gave him credit for, and it made her both sad and proud to know she alone saw his hidden sides, even though he’d never intentionally exposed them to her. Sitting at the High Table she was contemplating how he had somehow managed to become even _more_ nuanced during their time apart, when the sounds of some raucous voices and laughter filled the back of the dining hall.

She looked up to see the men of the wagon detail piling into the hall, with looks of pride on their faces as their friends rose to greet them, shaking their hands and smacking their backs in approval.

She counted twelve men entering. _They all survived!_ She waited to see Sandor’s familiar frame emerge through the doorway; no doubt he was waiting for the commotion and _attention_ to fade before entering, but minutes passed, and he did not appear.

With every effort not to look panicked, Sansa ventured to the table where the new arrivals were sitting and already enjoying the bowls of stew that servants had hurriedly set before them. They bowed on seeing her approach.

“Hello, my good men, I am so glad to see you have returned safely. Shall I interpret your good spirits to mean your mission was a success?”

Several nodded passionately as one spoke up, “Indeed, your grace, some boys are already unloading the wagons as we speak.”

“That is wonderful news! So you were not attacked?”

“Oh there was an attack, your grace, but the commander’s preparations paid off. We were shot at, but all arrows met wood. Eight men came out of the woods to engage us, but they were no match. We killed five and three fled. Commander said not to pursue, let them go back and spread the word that Winterfell’s shipments are not such easy spoils anymore!”

At that several men raised their cups, shouting “Here, here!”

“Thank you so much for your valiant efforts. I’m sorry you had to fight at all, but I’m glad to see you all back in one piece! I hope no one took injury…”

“Just a few bruises and scratches, if that, your grace. Only the commander caught a jab in the back of his shoulder, but it didn’t seem to bother him much, only made him angrier I’d say, by the way he nearly cut the man in half!”

The men laughed again but dread must have painted Sansa’s face as one of the men looked at her contritely, “Don’t be troubled, your grace, he’s fine, the tough old dog. Probably with the maester now.”

Sansa composed herself, “Well my thanks, again. I’m going to find your commander to give him my praise. Tonight drink all the ale you want… just not so much that you’ll oversleep on the morrow!”

“Thank you, your grace, and no worries there – commander said we can take the day off tomorrow as reward for today.”

She barely heard them as she was already out the door heading toward the maester’s chambers, but when she arrived the man was alone. “Pardon my intrusion, Maester Damon. Did you treat Sandor Clegane this evening?”

“No, your grace, does he need my attention?”

“It would appear not, but I’ll send for you if he does.”

She headed straight for his quarters in the Guards Hall. It might look improper for her to be entering the building unaccompanied, but at this hour all of the guards would either be on duty or in the dining hall, and she had a perfectly sound reason to seek out Sandor, under the circumstances.

She knocked on his door and was jarred back by the sound of an angry shout, “Go away!”

Knocking again this time she earned an insult, “Are you _deaf_? I said _go away_!”

She almost left but reminded herself that she was not the little bird anymore; she was his queen, his lady. If she wanted to check on him or offer her thanks it was within her rights.

This time after her knock she heard angry footsteps approach before the door was ripped open so fast that loose hairs blew around her face.

His face was menacing at first, then softened a bit as he recognized her. Stumbling to find words to apologize for the intrusion he beat her to it, “My apologies, my lady, I thought you were one of the men come to tell me for the hundredth time how _fierce_ I am, or to beg me to share a drink.”

It could have been construed as bragging but from him she knew it was a genuine complaint.

She slid on the mask that had momentarily lapsed, “I came to offer my thanks, and commend you for a job well done…” it was only then she realized he stood before her shirtless, wearing only his breeches and boots, with a wineskin in his left hand.

Forcing her eyes back up to his face she continued “Oh, and one of your men said you took injury. I hope it is nothing serious…”

“It’s a scratch, nothing more, but I thank ye for your _concern_.”

_Why does he sound resentful?_

Apparently, she had been standing there too long, for he finally asked, “Is there anything else, my lady?”

She remembered then that years ago Sandor had confided in her that he disliked maesters and would see them only for his more grievous injuries.

“No… I mean yes. It would ease my mind to see this injury for myself, since I know you won’t go to the maester.”

Now he looked downright annoyed, “I told you it’s a scratch, nothing the _queen_ needs to be worrying herself over.” He took another swig of wine and she realized he was drunk. Drinking always brought his rage even closer to the surface, she knew from personal experience.

 _I’m the one who should be annoyed, he’s being rude and ungrateful!_ She steeled herself, “Don’t profess to dictate what I should and shouldn’t worry about. I insist you show me your wound!”

“Insist, or _command_?” he sneered.

She would not take the bait; she would not wield her authority over him after insisting he not refer to her as a queen or treat her as anything more than a lady. “If it is just a scratch then show me and I’ll be on my way, otherwise I’ll have to believe you enjoy the _concern_ and _attention_ I’m expending on you now.”

The look on his face made her celebrate internally. Defeated, he turned around. She stepped closer to look at the wound, which she was about eye-level with, on the left side of his back. There in the meaty space where arm met shoulder was an ugly cut. Fresh blood was still present, which she knew to mean it hadn’t clotted, which meant it was deep, even if not long. To tester her assumption she placed two fingers on either side and separated the skin gently. Sandor hissed. The wound was indeed quite deep.

“It seems you do not know the meaning of the word ‘scratch’. That wound needs to be cleaned and sewn or it will fester.”

“I told you, it’s _fine_.”

She sighed, “Are you reckless, simple, or just stubborn?”

“Take your pick!”

“Come, we’re going to the maester.”

“No bloody maester! I hate the old fuckers with their bony fingers and their breath that smells like stale farts.”

Sansa couldn’t disagree with his distrust of maesters, though for different reasons. She herself had become leery of them. As a child she loved Maester Luwin dearly, but each one she’d met since lacked his compassion. In King’s Landing Maester Pycelle prodded her once a moon to check for her _virtue_. In truth it was just another form of humiliation ordered by Queen Cersei, but the old man seemed to take some joy in the act. In the Vale she was subjected to the same inspection, no doubt at Petyr’s behest. And Maester Damon – who served Winterfell since Theon killed Maester Luwin years ago – was the one to _treat_ Sansa during the time she was married to Ramsay. The extent of his treatment was to give her milk of the poppy every morning, even though every maester knew that administering it for more than a sennight would result in addiction – and to give her cloth, needle, thread, and salves to treat her own wounds. She knew he was only acting on Ramsay’s orders, but he always acted coldly toward her. That was probably also at Ramsay’s instruction, or perhaps the man simply didn’t want to let himself get attached to the young woman who would likely not survive a year as Lady Bolton.

Returning her attention to Sandor’s wound she assented, “Fine, no maester, I’ll stitch you up myself.”

Sandor barked out a laugh, “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not the same as embroidering pretty flowers on a napkin!”

“I know it’s not. Wait here.”

\---------------------------------------------

Several minutes after Sansa had fluttered out of his room, she returned carrying a small tray of supplies, a lantern, and a small pot, with a small linen sheet draped over her arm. As Sansa poured some of his wine into the pot and hung it in the hearth, he studied the contents of the tray: strips of cloth, a curved suturing needle, thread, scissors, small forceps, small tongs, and jar of some honey-colored salve.

While waiting for the wine to heat he spoke reticently, “My apologies for barking at you when you came to the door.”

“No need to apologize, I’m sure it was a trying day. It’s no fun being stabbed, I imagine.”

She thought that would earn her at least a snort but he only continued in a serious tone, “It wasn’t that… I… nevermind,” he flicked his wrist dismissively.

“What?”

She could see in his eyes he wanted to speak but was afraid to – a predicament she was familiar with. “I just… it’s been awhile, since I…”

Anyone else would have thought he was talking about being injured, but she knew he’d never be bothered by such a relatively small wound. She finished the words he could not say, “…Since you had to kill someone.”

He looked up at her with both awe and relief in his eyes, “It made me feel… like _him_.”

 _The Hound._ But this time she didn’t speak the words aloud, as if saying that name now would somehow conjure him back to life. Instead she just placed a hand on his shoulder and offered a weak smile.

“We all fall into old patterns at times, it’s our ability to pull ourselves back out that matters.”

He snorted at her words and she felt silly, “What? Oh don’t call me a stupid little bird…”

“I wasn’t going to,” he shook his head, still chuckling, “I was going to say you remind me of someone. A very wise man I used to know. The kind who’s always right and knows it!”

“Well, then, I’ll take that as a compliment, and unequivocal confirmation that you should always listen to me!”

He laughed again, “As you say, my lady.”

She instructed him to sit with his back to the fire, while she dragged over his small table and set her instruments and lantern on it. After testing the temperature of the wine with her finger, she brought over the pot. She bunched up the sheet and pressed it to his back just below the wound. As she was about to pour, she paused, remembering she was treating someone _else_ , not herself, for a change. “I don’t suppose I need to tell you that this is going to hurt.” He shook his head. She poured the wine slowly over the wound, letting the sheet soak up the excess. She managed to elicit a hiss and a curse from her reluctant patient but knew not to stop pouring. After letting the wine sit in his wound for a minute, she gently dabbed away the moisture with a clean corner of the sheet, earning another curse.

She thought back to when Maester Luwin would stitch up one of Sansa’s brothers, or Arya, after they’d fallen off a horse or otherwise gotten themselves cut up. He would always tell stories to distract them from their pain – often stories of other, worse injuries he had treated in his lifetime. It always succeeded in stopping their tears and their complaints.

“You know, I took an arrow in nearly the same spot during the battle.”

“What?!” Sandor turned to face her, but she pushed his head back around.

“Actually, mine was a bit more toward the shoulder blade,” she lightly touched the place on his shoulder where her injury had been. “It must have scraped bone because it was terribly painful, much worse than the one in my arm.”

“What?!” Again he tried to turn, and again she stopped him.

She found it odd that didn’t know of her injuries. Her _heroics_ during the battle had become the pride of the Northmen, much to her embarrassment.

She inspected the wound again and threaded her needle. “It’s not long but it’s deep, I’ll need to do a row of deeper sutures and another row of shallower ones, but I think only five of each should do it.” He nodded and she began her work with a steady hand. He barely flinched, but she knew the deep stitches were painful, so she continued trying to distract him with conversation, “You seem surprised, did you not hear about the battle?”

“I heard some, not much. Didn’t know you’d been injured.”

“Hmpf, I’m surprised. For two moons after the battle all I kept hearing was praise and concern everywhere I went… Everyone wanted to fuss over my little flesh wounds while others had lost limbs and eyes, even their lives…” She tied off her first stitch and set upon the next.

“It’s not surprising, their concern. Not common for a woman to fight, even less common for a _lady_ to fight, especially a lady like _you_.”

Sansa felt insulted, “What’s that supposed to mean?” she must have jabbed a bit too hard with the needle for he jerked.

“Easy! I only mean fair ladies. Men have a hard-enough time accepting someone like _Brienne of Tarth_ as a soldier, and she’s nearly as big as me.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I guess I’ve just gotten a bit sensitive… I fought beside women who are every bit as brave and fierce as any man I’ve ever met…” She paused as she tied the second stitch.

“Hmm, heard something about that too, your _brigade_ of Wildlings. Heard you led them through some secret passage into Winterfell. Figured you just guided them through, didn’t realize you’d be reckless enough to fight with them.”

She laughed, “It wasn’t the plan!”

“So why did you then? Fight with them?”

She sighed and finished the third stitch, “Just felt wrong not to.”

Sandor snorted, “You Starks and your _honor_ … thought you’d have learned by now: it’ll only get you killed.”

She finished the fourth stitch, “I don’t fear death.”

“Hah! Little bird’s gotten brave, eh?”

“Not brave, just know there are worse things to fear.”

“Like what?”

“A cage.” She finished the fifth stitch and he turned to look at her, but she did not meet his eyes.

Refusing to wallow in self-pity she attempted to lighten the mood, “Now, for the border, do you want daisies or roses?”

It took him a moment to understand the jape, “How about one of your beloved strawberry vines?”

She smiled, “Alright, hold still now.”

As she worked through the first three sutures, she instructed him to avoid exertion the next few days and to be careful not to stretch the area too much.

“I’ve had stitches before, believe it or not.”

“Yes, and I bet you’ve ripped them open before, too.”

He didn’t deny it, and she took that as confirmation of her suspicion. As she started the fourth stitch he asked, “How did you get so good at this, anyway?”

“Practice.”

“Aye? And who was the _unlucky_ patient? Or have you become a Queen _and_ a maester’s apprentice while I was away?”

She was silent for a few moments, “I was,” she finally mumbled as she finished the last stitch.

He turned to look at her quizzically, “You were a maester’s apprentice?”

She returned her instruments to the tray and picked up the jar of salve, “I was the unlucky patient.” She dabbed a bit of the sticky substance over the freshly sewn wound then wrapped it snugly with cloth.

“Here,” she handed him the jar without meeting the eyes she knew were staring up at her, “apply it twice a day after cleansing the area.”

She left quickly, leaving him no opportunity to ask another question.


	17. The Battle for the North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Flashback) Sansa and her allies reclaim Winterfell from the Boltons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter to explain some of what transpired while Sandor was at QI
> 
> Not sure why, but I write the flashbacks in present tense even though rest of the fic is in past tense. I guess it's because I imagine the character reliving the memory, so present tense seems appropriate. Hope it isn't confusing.
> 
> Also hope this is relatively believable - I don't want to make Sansa seem like she's suddenly some great warrior when in reality I imagine her more as the unlikely hero archetype. If you don't like this version of Sansa, you probably won't enjoy the rest of the fic.
> 
> BTW - I bow down to anyone who can write effective battle/fight scenes.

**Sansa**

**Four months ago…**

In the distance, a war horn sounds. That is their signal. Sansa nods at the group of seventy Wildling women awaiting her command. Without another word she pulls aside the branches of the large shrub that hides the entrance – or rather the exit – of the narrow tunnel that will lead them into Winterfell. Just four months ago she and Theon had emerged from this tunnel vowing never to set foot in Winterfell as long as the Boltons held it.

_The Hound was right, vows are useless, made only to be broken._

His exact words were more colorful, comparing vows to farts, she recalls.

Sansa enters the tunnel and begins crawling. It is a narrow tunnel, designed for women and children to escape the castle in the event of a siege or sack. Theon only fit through it because he was so emaciated at the time.

It will take the women nearly a half hour to reach their destination, if her memory serves. She hears the women behind her enter one by one, each laying a narrow shield in front of her with her favored weapons atop it – bow, sword, axe, mallet. Sansa bears only her dagger. Her bannermen had refused her plan until she assured them that she would serve only as guide through the tunnel, hiding within the castle while the Wildling women attacked the Bolton archers and guards at the North Gate.

_There is no way I’m staying hidden while these women fight and die for me._

In truth, they are fighting for their own people – for the promise of safety south of the Wall, but it matters not to her; an ally is an ally.

They reach their destination when Sansa’s hand meets wood. She pushes gently, but no light spills into the tunnel from the room on the other side. It is only a storage closet in the hallway of the family quarters, and with the door closed it is as dark as the tunnel. Sansa climbs out and feels her way to where she knows the door is. First listening a moment, she opens the door slightly, allowing some light to brighten the space. When she turns back around, she sees a pair of eyes low in the corner and nearly screams except that two small hands immediately fly up immediately in surrender. Her eyes adjust and she recognizes the hands as belonging to Ruth, a sweet brown-haired girl who is the daughter of one of the kitchen workers.

Afraid the girl will scream, Sansa kneels and whispers, “Ruth, it’s me, Lady Sansa. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Lady Sansa?” the little voice sounds relieved, “Are you the ones attacking us?”

“Yes Ruth, my people are, but we won’t harm you, or your mother, or any of the servants. We’re only here to get rid of the Bolton men and retake Winterfell for House Stark.”

“So you did kill him then?” Ruth asks, eyes wide.

Sansa wonders what the household staff were told about Ramsay’s death and her and Theon’s escape, but now is not the time to ask, “Yes, Ruth, I killed him. I hope that doesn’t upset you.”

“It doesn’t. I hate the Boltons!” The girl is smart enough to whisper even as her tone indicates unbridled anger. Sansa wonders what cruelties the girl may have witnessed, or worse yet, experienced.

Sansa remembers the women in the tunnel, no doubt listening to the exchange. “Ruth don’t be alarmed, my friends are in the tunnel, they are women who have come to help me. We need to get outside. Can you be brave for me? Can you peek into the hallway – look both ways – and see if anyone is there? If you see anyone, step out and close the door behind you, tell them you were afraid when the battle started and hid in the closet. Then only open the door once they leave.”

“What if they don’t leave, or what if they take me with them?” her little eyes were filled with panic.

“I won’t let that happen, if I hear anything happening to you, we’ll kill them.”

Ruth nods, visibly terrified but brave enough to help her former lady. She looks out the door, turning her head both ways, then back at Sansa, relieved to tell her the hall is empty.

“You did well, Ruth. Now we are going to go out there, quietly. You stay in here until you hear no more sounds of battle.”

Sansa gestures for the first woman to exit, then others follow, each nodding to Ruth as they see her. The closet only accommodates six women at a time, so once that many have emerged, they begin quietly filing into the hallway. It seems every man is outside fighting, and every servant is wise enough to hide somewhere. After several minutes all seventy women are assembled in the hall. Thirty-five stand in a line behind Sansa, and thirty-four stand behind one of the Wildling women, Val. Val eyes Sansa with a smirk, “You’re supposed to be hiding, remember?”

Sansa shrugs, trying to hide her fear, “I don’t want you hogging all the glory.”

Now it’s Val’s turn to shrug, “So long as you know you’re probably going to die.”

Sansa chuckles, “If I’d only be so lucky.”

Val snorts, “Woman after my own heart. Lead the way, she-wolf. _”_

No more instruction needs to be given; the women know their roles. Both groups will exit the keep and make their way to the North Wall. If they move stealthily, Sansa hopes they will be unseen – all the guards and archers on the walls should be facing outwards, not in. If they take fire it will likely be from the right – the East wall – so they will hold their shields on that side. When they are close to the North Gate, Sansa’s group will form a two-layer shield circle and fight their way to the gate to open it. Meanwhile, sixteen women from Val’s group will form a shield wall while the rest use their bows to pick off as many archers as they can and lay cover for Sansa’s group as needed.

Upon reaching the exit of the keep Sansa pauses a moment, wondering if she’s lost her mind. She would laugh if it wouldn’t alarm the other women.

_Who the fuck do I think I am? This is madness! I’m no soldier!_

_But it is too late to change my mind, at least while retaining any shred of dignity._

And dignity is all that matters to her in that moment. She stopped fearing death long ago, now she only fears a cage, and that’s what her dagger is for. She isn’t sure she’ll be able to kill anyone, even if she needs to. Killing Ramsay was even hard, and she despised him with every ounce of her being. No, the dagger she wears at her hip is first and foremost her assurance that if the battle is lost, she will not be taken alive.

Once more she nods at Val, and the woman nods back.

The moment she steps out of the Keep is like stepping into a dream. The sounds of battle that should have become louder seem somehow more distant. She sees men on the walls, facing away as hoped, but she does not fear them.

The women are passing the Guards Hall, now passing the Armory, now passing the lichyard. Now men are shouting. Arrows are flying in their direction, making a sharp noise every time they meet the wood of a Wildling shield. Sansa sees only the backs of the women who surround her – she dares not look up; she continues walking crouched low. She hears Val shouting commands, but the words are meaningless. Now swords meet the shields of the women around her. She hears men scream; she hears women scream. Each time a woman screams the circle gets a bit smaller. Their pace has slowed. Someone shoves a shield into her hands, it is heavy and awkward, but she takes it. She looks up just long enough to see the gate, but it is too far away.

_Twenty yards maybe? We’ll never make it, not at this pace... Are we even moving?_

_Oh well, at least we are drawing the arrows away from our men in the field, maybe that’s enough. They’ll take Winterfell, it doesn’t matter if we die._

_Why am I so calm?_

An arrow flies over Sansa’s head, missing her by inches and landing in the shoulder of the woman to her left. The woman curses, and shouts something at Sansa.

_What is she saying? Focus, focus, she’s talking to you!_

“Break it off! Break it!” Without thinking Sansa snaps the arrow so only a few inches of jagged wood stick out from the woman’s back. The woman grunts but never stops fighting.

They are moving again, and Sansa realizes they’re stepping over bodies. Mostly men, some women.

_Twelve yards now? Maybe we won’t die!_

But they stop again, and Sansa feels suddenly vulnerable. The circle around her is only half what it was when they started, but men keep surrounding them. Suddenly the woman to her right is pushed into Sansa, so hard the impact almost knocks her over. The woman is sliding down to the ground but holding her shield, still fighting. Sansa sees the man she is fighting; she recognizes him as one of Ramsay’s guards, one who seemed to take a bit too much pleasure when Ramsay publicly tormented Sansa. Without realizing it’s happening her dagger is in his neck, and his eyes finally raise from the woman he’d been fighting to meet Sansa’s. When he looks at her, she sees an expression she’d only provoked in one man, one time, for one brief instant: **fear.**

He is afraid of me? The woman she just saved stands and resumes fighting, but Sansa only laughs at the irony of the situation. The woman shouts without taking her eyes off the fight, “Looks like the wolf finally decided to join the fight.” The women seem energized and begin to gain back ground they’d lost in the preceding minutes.

Sansa feels euphoric. It is not the desire to save herself or her comrades that drives her to do what she does next; it is the desire to see that look in another man’s eyes…

_This must be what the Hound feels like._

_S_ he picks up a shortsword from under foot and pushes her way to join the shield circle rather than be ensconced by it. It is only then that she realizes how small their circle has become. Only fifteen of the original thirty-six women, including herself.

She doesn’t dwell on that fact though; she begins mimicking the other women, waiting for the right moment to move her shield aside just enough to drive her sword into a man. Most of her jabs are shallow, many don’t even break armor, but they at least push the man back or distract him long enough for one of her comrades to end him. She tries to aim for their groins or their throats as Jaime had taught her, and it seems to work as she finally feels flesh yield to blade.

Just as she’s starting to feel invincible, something stings her right arm near the shoulder. She looks down in horror at the arrow lodged in her flesh. It had seemed the archers were eliminated but other men must have taken up their positions. She tries to snap the arrow but only screams in agony. A few seconds later it is snapped for her, but by the time she looks up whichever woman did her the favor has already turned back around to resume fighting.

Sansa looks toward the North Gate once again. _Less than ten yards! We’re so close!_

After the arrow struck her arm, she had backed up within the circle again, so she takes a minute to survey her surroundings while keeping her shield raised. Val’s group is still beside them, but has been reduced to only twelve women, including Val. There aren’t many men standing either, maybe twelve on the ground defending the gate and another five upon the wall firing arrows at the women. Her group is now only ten women, plus herself.

Val’s group is firing at both the archers and the men at the gate, occasionally hitting a mark. Sansa’s hope is rising until she hears footsteps from behind her. She turns to see a group of five guards advancing on them, swords drawn. 

_Fuck!_

Sansa shouts over to Val, “Behind us.” Val spins around and begins firing at the approaching men. Sansa hears two thuds before the clash of metal on wood begins again behind her. Sansa continues facing forward, with no choice but to trust the women at her back to take out the three remaining men. A woman to her left takes an arrow to the neck and falls over, instantly dead.

Sansa looks up at the wall and sees no archers remain. The battlements are designed to protect from outside attacks, not inside, and without cover the men quickly succumbed to the Wildling arrows.

_Ten men at the gate now, only ten._

But Sansa looks around again: Val’s group is only ten, and her group is only seven. Seventeen exhausted women against ten trained soldiers – it doesn’t seem like good odds. Suddenly Sansa feels another sting, this time in her left shoulder blade. The pain is searing, much worse than the bite in her right arm. She turns to see four archers have taken position on the ground behind them. She shouts over to Val’s group, “Shield wall, behind us!”

Val doesn’t hesitate; she and five of her women form a shield wall facing the archers while the other four join Sansa’s group, facing the gate.

 _Fuck it,_ Sansa tells herself for the hundredth time that day. She’s suddenly too exhausted to care, and wonders if blood loss is dulling her senses.

“It’s now or never, ladies.” The women cheer, and a couple of them howl. It was something Tormund had done a few times in jest toward Sansa and Jon, but now it sounded like – respect?

Not wanting to disappoint, Sansa begins advancing on the men at the gate, and the women join her without hesitation. Only three of the men have shields, but five of the women – including Sansa – still have theirs. The shielded women meet the shielded men while the others face each other weapon to weapon. Eleven women to ten men. For her part, Sansa jabs wildly and with little strategy, but the men had let themselves be backed up against the gate to their own detriment. In these close quarters blood is flying everywhere. Every time Wildling axe meets Bolton chest the blood splatters all over Sansa’s face and she is momentarily blinded. She hears a scream and a woman drops, but she thinks three men have already done the same. Against all odds her sword meets flesh – a thigh, she thinks – because she can barely lift the sword higher than her waist anymore. Someone else finishes the man.

_Four down, six remain._

Now Sansa’s group has the numbers advantage. Another man screams and drops.

_Five men left._

Suddenly the men are kneeling, swords dropped, hands raised.

The women hold weapons at each man’s throat, awaiting Sansa’s command. Through the blood that covers them, she makes out two of the faces. They also were two of Ramsay’s personal guards, two that had accompanied him on his hunts – when he hunted not animals but people. Sansa was present on three such occasions – they were some of the few times Ramsay allowed her to leave her room, though they were truly just another way to torment her and Theon. The selected prey for each hunt was someone Ramsay was punishing for some perceived offense: a stable boy who’d allegedly disrespected Ramsay; a maid who had spurned a guard’s advances; and – the one that troubled Sansa the most – a young guard who’d tried to defend his lady when Ramsay was humiliating her during dinner one night.

These two men kneeling before Sansa had joined Ramsay on those hunts, each time laughing at and mocking the pathetic attempts of the victim trying to outrun Ramsay’s hounds and arrows.

Sansa doesn’t think about mercy, she doesn’t think about right and wrong, she doesn’t think at all, really. She just draws her dagger – the one that had once belonged to Ramsay, and slits each man’s throat, saving those two for last.

The women stare at her in shock – even Wildlings have some sense that surrender should mean mercy – but Sansa does not care, nor does she explain herself other than to say, “They deserved worse.”

The women nod, and Sansa stumbles up the stairs that lead to the lever to open the gate. She tries to pull the lever, but her arms are like rubber. Val and another woman come up to help her. Sansa walks up to stand on the battlements, taking in the scene before her. The battle wages on, but her people are clearly winning, in no small part due to the women who picked off the Bolton archers, most of whom now lay dead within the walls of Winterfell.

A familiar feeling snakes its way in and around Sansa’s heart: _Why am I alive when they are dead? Is this my curse? To survive when I don’t deserve to? When others around me die?_

She felt this way when her father was executed before her very eyes. She felt it when she heard of Bran and Rickon’s deaths. She felt it when she heard of Robb and her mother’s deaths. She even felt it when she heard of the Hound’s death. Worst of all, she felt it after…

“Lady Wolf!” the familiar voice snaps her from her memories. Tormund and a few dozen Wildlings are filing in through the now open gate. Most are continuing past Sansa, no doubt to clear the castle grounds of any remaining Bolton men. 

Tormund climbs to the battlements but she cannot meet his eyes, “I’m sorry, Tormund.”

“For what? You didn’t fail, the gates are open, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Many of your women died… It was so much worse than I thought it would be…”

“That’s battle, Lady Wolf, and they knew it, even if you didn’t. Anything worth fighting for is worth dying for, they died for their people – their pack as you wolves like to say.”

Sansa nods, unconvinced but too exhausted to argue.

“I see you’ve got a few battle wounds yourself!” As he spoke, he tied cloth tightly around her arm and shoulder to stem the bleeding, though did not remove the arrowheads. “You should go get fixed up, and get cleaned up while you’re at it,” he pointed at her face, “I can’t tell where your hair ends, and your face begins! Maybe I should start calling you the Red Wolf!”

She musters a chuckle, “I don’t think there is anyone here to fix me up, it might have to wait.”

Tormund looks around as if expecting a maester to magically appear, “Suppose not. Well, in that case, you just sit there and try not to die. I’ll go ask after a healer.”

Sansa is fairly certain that shoulder and arm wounds are not lethal unless left untreated. They don’t even look to be bleeding much, anymore. She stands again and looks out upon the battlefields. She gasps when she sees white flags waving.

_The Boltons have surrendered!_

Her army is already approaching Winterfell, Bolton prisoners in tow. Sansa wants to run through the gates to meet them, so elated is she, but her exhaustion wins out and instead she greets them from right there atop the battlements as they move through the North Gate.

She beams each time she sees a familiar face: Theon, then Brienne, supporting an injured but smiling Jaime... then Derik Cassel. Eventually, Alysane Mormont and Hother Umber enter alongside their respective men. She frowns, however, when the scowling face of Roose Bolton meets her eyes – he is among the prisoners Sansa will soon be judging and – most likely – executing.

Sansa shakes Roose from her thoughts, not letting him sully this moment. She stands there, trying to wrap her head around the fact that the battle is over. Winterfell is back in the hands of a Stark, even if it is the most unworthy Stark. As she tries to accept this as reality, she hears versions of her name being murmured below:

> “…the Lone Wolf…”
> 
> “…Stark…”
> 
> “…Lady Sansa…”
> 
> “…Red Wolf…”

She suspects the surviving Wildling women are recounting the details of their fight, probably telling everyone how Sansa could barely lift the shield, or how she jabbed a sword with as much strength and grace as a toddler, or how she spent half of their fight looking around, dumbfounded.

_Let them mock me, I’m no warrior. All that matters is that we’ve won. The Boltons are gone from Winterfell, I don’t even care if someone else takes it from me, so long as it isn’t a Bolton, Frey, or Lannister._

A Wildling man approaches her, one she does not recognize. He is older and unmarred by the stains of battle. “Tormund told me to find the Red Wolf. Says you need tending,” he nods at her arm.

“I do, but, if you think it’s safe, can I stay here a few more minutes?”

He smiles warmly at her, understanding the power of the moment she is experiencing. “Name’s Roland. Shout when you’re ready.”

She nods her thanks and turns again to look out over the vast lands of the North, except, now that the survivors have mostly filed into or near Winterfell, she can easily see what remains: bodies. So many bodies. The knowledge makes her feel sick.

_They all died for me._

She tells herself it’s mostly Bolton bodies, but knows there are plenty of Mormonts, Umbers, and Wildlings among the fallen. They all died so she could retake her home.

_Why? What does it matter to them? What difference does it make to them whether Bolton or Stark holds Winterfell?_

Only the Wildlings had their own personal reason to fight – to earn a place south of the Wall, which Roose Bolton would never have allowed. _The rest – they all died for me. No, not even for me, for my name, and what it represents to them… a legacy I must now uphold._

_But how? How do I ever become worthy of their sacrifice?_

She turns back around ready to leave, ready to be anywhere but here, but as her eyes take in the display below her, she stops dead in her tracks. Everyone she can see is kneeling, or at least those whose injuries allow them to do so.

 _What?_ Realization sets in. _No! No, no, no!_

They rise as one, weapons and fists held high in the air…

_No, no, no! Don’t say it!_

“The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!”

They chant it over and over again. Sansa’s wide eyes find Brienne and Jaime and she knows they see her panic as their smiles fall away.

 _Please, say something! Tell them I’m not a queen!_ Her eyes implore them, but they remain silent and motionless.

But it’s too late. Her mind is spinning. She is sure she will faint. She grips the railing and begins walking down the stairs slowly. The Wildling healer – Roland – takes her arm and helps her. Anyone looking will think she is only weak due to her injuries, but she doesn’t even feel her wounds anymore. Brienne, leaving Jaime leaning on Theon, has run to her side and takes her other arm.

“It’s all right, my lady, all will be well, just breathe," Brienne speaks calmly.

_What the fuck is breathing?_

A few minutes later she is inside a room, head still reeling. Roland speaks to her, “This is going to hurt, bite down on this.” He has put something in her mouth, between her teeth. A moment later, her shoulder is in agony. Mercifully, she faints.


	18. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor finds a way to occupy himself.
> 
> After spending time with Sansa, Sandor has even more questions.

**Sandor**

The morning after Sansa stitched up Sandor’s wound, he paced the training grounds restlessly. He regretted giving his men the day off as he was now thoroughly unoccupied and had nothing to ponder but the little bird’s words from the previous night.

_Who hurt her so badly then left her to stitch her own wounds?_

He was fairly certain it hadn’t been at the Vale. Littlefinger was certainly a creeper but he didn’t seem to have a penchant for inflicting bodily harm, at least not unless he could profit from it somehow.

_Ramsay, that fucker. I’d like to find his rotten corpse and use his skull as a chamber pot._

He was in desperate need of a mental distraction and physical outlet, but he couldn’t even find some menial labor, given the freshness of his wound. There was only one thing he could think to do, and only two people he would dare ask to help him.

He found Cris and Brant idling in the courtyard. Though not officially guards, they too had earned a day off – which the Head Mason permitted after Sandor asked _nicely._

Without pretext he approached them, “Either of you afraid of dogs?”

\---------------------------------------------------

It only took two wine rations apiece to convince Brant and Cris to join him, but they both were shrewd negotiators, demanding ten rations if either of them was bit during the hunt. An hour later, Sandor found himself in the woods to the west of Winterfell, accompanied by the two men and the four most obedient hounds. Not knowing their real names – if they’d ever had ones – Sandor had been calling the larger gray one “Smoke”, the smaller gray one, “Cinder”, the solid black one “Shadow”, and the black one with the white spot on her chest “Birdie”, because her obedient and relatively docile nature reminded him of the little bird.

Sandor had been an avid hunter in his youth and had been present though not much of a participant on several of King Robert’s hunts, but he’d never been out with dogs that been trained to hunt _people_ instead of game. Sansa had told him that Ramsay had also used the dogs to hunt animals, so Sandor hoped this experience would not be much different than his prior hunts. Even so, he kept the dogs on leashes until they were far from the West Gate, and seemingly at ease around the men and horses.

\---------------------------------------------------

The hunt was more of a test of the dog’s obedience. Sandor hadn’t expected or prepared to actually kill anything, so when the dogs successfully took down an Elk, he put the poor beast down with his own sword and had Brant stay with the carcass while Cris went to find and bring back some boys and a cart. Sandor carved off a sliver of meat to reward each of the dogs before returning them to the kennels and their jealous brothers and sisters.

It was late afternoon and in Sandor’s excitement he practically sprinted to find the little bird in her solar next to the Great Hall. When she wasn’t there, he headed to her personal solar in the family quarters, but a young maid told him the lady was resting and not to be disturbed. He was disappointed but not disturbed, he knew she kept odd hours, so an afternoon nap hardly seemed unusual. He thought to do the same since he fully intended on seeking her out in the Glass Gardens that evening to share the good news. Sandor stopped at the kitchens for an early supper and was surprised to be greeted by smiling faces – including the ruddy-faced butcher, Mykel. Puzzled, Sandor approached the man for explanation, “Why do I get the feeling I’ve been the subject of some jape?”

The older man smiled, “Quite the opposite, Ser, we’re all just excited that _Elk_ will soon be on the menu.”

_How did they find out about that already? Surely the lads are still carting the thing in…_

“I suppose good news travels fast, though I’d think Elk fairly common in the North...” Sandor’s excitement was due to the success of the hounds _not_ attacking Brant or Cris more so than it was over them taking down the Elk, but now he could see there truly were _two_ great causes for celebration.

“Quite common, just difficult to hunt and kill without dogs. Seems you’ve remedied that problem. Between that and the wagons, you’re quite popular at the moment,” Mykel lowered his voice and pointed his head toward a pair of pretty kitchen girls who were looking in Sandor’s direction, “if I were you lad, I’d take advantage while it lasts!” With a wink he handed Sandor a generous plateful of the meats and cheeses he’d requested, and Sandor hurried away in a daze.

As he returned to his room, instead of feeling proud he felt almost ashamed, or perhaps guilty.

_You fucking oaf, you could’ve just fucked two women_ at the same time! _Why did you run away like they were made out of fire!_

But he knew why: the brief second he considered approaching the girls was all it took to make him feel like he was betraying the little bird.

_You can’t be disloyal to someone who isn’t yours!_

He desperately willed himself to march back to the kitchens, grab one or both of the women by the hand and take them hard and fast in the nearest pantry.

_That’s what the Hound would do!_

_But I’m not the Hound anymore!_

_Yes, and you’re also not the little bird’s husband, what is there to think about?_

He sat down and forced himself to think of the women. If he could at least become _aroused_ by them, even if he did not act on it, he’d feel like less of a hapless fool. The one had dark hair, almost black, and from where he stood, she looked to have creamy skin... _Like the little bird._

_Fuck, alright, the other one then._ That one had dirty blond hair and a pouty mouth. He imagined gripping his fingers into her hair as her pretty mouth enveloped his cock. _Yes, I can work with that..._

He was semi-erect and used his hand to get himself the rest of the way, but every time it started to feel good, every time he started to succumb to the sensation, images of the little bird entered his mind like an uninvited guest. After an earnest effort to evict her from his fantasies he surrendered, and for the third time since arriving at Winterfell, it was her name on his lips when he grunted his release.

\---------------------------------------------------

Feeling doubly ashamed for imagining the little bird while he stroked himself and for _trying_ to imagine _another_ woman, Sandor almost couldn’t muster the courage to seek her out in the Glass Gardens. But ultimately his desire to share the good news won out, and just after midnight he headed to the gardens.

She was already there when he arrived. His excitement was dashed when he saw the troubled look on her face. “Is something amiss, my lady?”

“No Sandor, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. You look like you came to tell me something.”

“Aye, but if you’re not—”

“No, I’d welcome a distraction, I’m starting to bore myself with my own thoughts.”

“Well, I… mayhap I should have asked for your permission, but I took four of the hounds out today on a hunt…”

“You did?!” She didn’t look mad, quite the opposite.

“…Yes, with two other men – don’t worry – it went well.”

“So I assume everyone arrived back with ten fingers and ten toes?”

He laughed, “Never seen their feet, but if they lost any toes it wasn’t today… in fact we came home better than we went out – the dogs felled an Elk – the butcher already seems to be planning a feast.”

She looked genuinely pleased, “Sandor that is wonderful! Congratulations!”

“We should share the credit, my lady.”

She waved away the compliment, “Thank you, but you’re the one who took them out and… well… just, amazing! It’s amazing!”

He shrugged, trying to downplay his pride, though he truly was pleased, a feeling he rarely harbored.

“So, will you take them next time you… I mean, _if_ you go…”

“With the wagons? Might be I will. Probably don’t need to, but I’ve got to admit, it’s tempting. Few things will scare rats off for good better than a pack of bloodthirsty hounds.”

“So I’ve heard,” she raised her eyebrows.

Sandor snorted, “You remember that, do you?”

She playfully tapped a finger on her chin as if trying hard to recall a forgotten memory, “It seems I was – very _courteously_ – trying to thank you for saving my life, and you – very _discourteously –_ told me something about dogs not needing courage to chase off rats.”

He nodded in supplication, “I guess the moral of your story is I’ve become much more courteous over the years.”

“Indeed, and much better at accepting appreciation.”

“Still don’t like it, though,” he muttered.

“No one does, or at least no one possessing any sense of humility. The worst people I’ve ever met all _loved_ being praised and complimented; in fact, it may be the surest indicator of madness.”

“There she is again, my wise little bird.”

“Not wise, just experienced, _unfortunately_.”

“There she is again, my humble little bird.”

She swatted his arm, and it felt better than every lusty kitchen girl giving him _come hither_ eyes at the same time.

Cautiously, he changed the subject, “So now that I’ve shared my good news, do you want to share your _bad_ news? Might be it’ll feel better to talk about it.”

She waved her hand, “It truly isn’t _bad_. In fact it isn’t even out of the ordinary…”

“Yet it’s troubling you.”

“Yes, but it shouldn’t. This is not worthy of my time worrying over, it makes me feel like a petulant _child_ to even complain about it to _myself!_ ”

“Yet you do.”

“Yes!” she looked at him in frustration, “I changed my mind, I don’t want to tell you about it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll call me a silly little bird.”

“I won’t call you that.”

“But you’ll think it!”

He sighed, “I can’t promise not to think something if I don’t know what you’re about to say, but I promise I won’t say it. That’ll have to be enough.”

She resumed walking, “Fine, worst case you’ll think no less of me than I already do myself…”

“Sound logic,” he rolled his eyes sarcastically.

“I got a letter today, the kind I get every so often,” she paused.

“And?”

She took a deep breath as if preparing to dive under water, “My men are respectful enough, as are my vassal lords and ladies, but I just know they’re all holding their breath waiting for me to marry.”

He felt his mouth go dry.

“You don’t know this, but shortly after we retook Winterfell, I made it clear to _everyone_ that I would not marry again until I did so willingly. That if they name me as their Queen, they do so with full knowledge that there may never be a _King…”_

A wave of relief rushed over him, “And they agreed?”

“They did, without hesitation.”

“But?”

“But they still inquire after me, they still seek a betrothal. I thought by telling them I wasn’t eager to marry they would refrain from soliciting me…”

“But they didn’t.”

“No!” He could sense her rising ire. “ _They_ named me their queen – which I didn’t ask for, by the way – and before the coronation they’re already telling me about all the virtues of their sons and nephews, or themselves, like they’re trying to sell me a horse!”

Sandor sighed, “Lords and ladies will always try to make the best match they can for their heirs, there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

“I understand that, but it’s the _disrespect_ of it all. Not only are they going against my wishes to _not_ be courted, they are showing complete lack of faith in me as a ruler. They won’t be comfortable until there is a man by my side. It’s hard enough to maintain my own confidence without having them showing me just how _unconfident_ they are in me.”

“I understand your frustration over the proposals, but I have to say I think you’re seeing the rest of it wrong. Since the day I arrived I haven’t heard one person speak a disrespectful word to you or about you. The men respect you. They obey your orders without question, few _lords_ have that type of loyalty.”

She snorted, “But _is_ it loyalty or are they only trying to gain my favor? Or is it because they’re _afraid_ of me, because…” she trailed off.

_Because of what?_

He set aside his curiosity, “Does it matter? Loyalty is loyalty, doesn’t matter the motive.”

“It matters to me. Loyalty to a pretty face is fragile. Loyalty gained through fear is stronger, but eventually all men will tire of living in fear…”

“So you want to be loved and feared?”

“Mayhap I do!”

He laughed, “Few rulers are both loved and feared, be happy if you have either, girl.”

“My father was loved and feared.”

“I’d say it was more the former, but even so, where is your father now?”

“The same place as Joffrey Baratheon, Robert Baratheon, and Aerys Targaryen II – all of whom were _feared_ but not loved.”

“Some examples you pick! Two of them were mad as fuck, and the other spent more time in brothels than in the throne room! Besides, we were talking about _respect_. You can have love and respect, or fear and respect, either combination will serve you well... You Starks have held the North for thousands of years with love and respect, just as the Tyrells have held the Reach. The Lannisters have held the Westerlands with fear and respect for almost as long.”

“I suppose you’re right. I know it’s silly, it’s just—”

But before she could finish her thought she clutched at her belly and winced in pain.

“Little bird, are you alright?”

She took a deep breath through her mouth, “I’m fine, I was feeling unwell before… I think I’ll retire.”

She began walking toward the door but stopped a few steps short, crying out as she doubled over in pain.

“What’s wrong, little bird?”

After another breath she rose, using his arm to support herself, “It’s fine, truly, just, will you see me to the Keep?”

“Of course.” She took his arm and they began walking back toward the main keep when she collapsed again, one hand on her belly while the other still clung to his arm.

“Something’s wrong, don’t say you’re fine,” he kneeled beside her.

Through gritted teeth she answered, “I _am_ fine. This happens every so often, just help me up pl—” Once again her words were cut short by a sob of pain.

“That’s it,” Sandor scooped her up in his arms, “I’m taking you to the maester.”

“No!” she yelled.

“If you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I’m taking you to the maester.”

“Fine! It’s my moonblood – it’s like this every time. Just bring me to my chambers.”

“Are you forgetting I saw you every day in the Red Keep? I think I’d remember if you were unable to walk once every moon.”

“It wasn’t always like this, just – ahhh,” she winced in pain, digging her fingers into his neck.

He hurriedly brought her to her chambers and laid her on her bed, only then noticing that her face was frightfully pale and soaked with perspiration. She immediately rolled to her side and pulled her knees up to her chest, hugging them as she buried her face in her pillow and screamed.

“Little bird, tell me what to do.”

“Leave me _alone_!” she practically screamed the last word.

“I’m not leaving you alone like this! Fuck it, hate me if you want but I’m going to get the maester.”

“No!” she yelled at his back.

He turned, “Then. Tell. Me. What. To. Do!” he pronounced each word like a command.

As the next wave of pain hit her, she yelled into her pillow, “Get Theon!”

“What?”

“Get Theon!”

“I heard what you said, but what the fuck is he going to do?”

“Please just get him.”

“Fine. Where is he?”

“Two down,” she pointed weakly, “on the right.”

The skinny man was visibly startled to open his door and find Sandor’s face looking back at him.

“Lady Sansa is unwell, she asked for you.”

Seemingly unsurprised, Theon walked out into the hallway and straight into Sansa’s room. Sandor didn’t know what to do but follow.

Upon entering her room Theon went directly to Sansa’s side and grasped her hand, “Is it very bad, Sansa?”

“Yes, Gods! It came on so fast!”

Theon left her side only a moment to bring over a wet cloth to dab her forehead. She was writhing in pain, but Theon seemed unfazed.

Knowing Sansa was incapable of seeing reason at the moment Sandor directed his question at Theon, “Shouldn’t I send for the maester?”

“No, he can’t do anything for her.”

“He can give her Milk of the Poppy!”

Theon and Sansa responded in unison, “No!”

Sansa pleaded pathetically, “Theon, please!”

Theon simply stroked her hair, “Don’t worry, we won’t bring the maester.”

Shaking his head at the insanity on display before him, Sandor began to take in his surroundings. He was surprised by how sparse the room was. No frilly women’s decorations, none of the bright pinks and reds that were so common in lady’s chambers in the Capital. Even the few cloaks he saw strewn about were black or gray. The sole mirror was turned to face the corner. There was no vanity table littered with jewelry, perfumes and oils. But for a stray book and a few scrolls one could easily believe the room was unoccupied.

“Sandor!” Theon yelled.

_Shit, how long has he been talking to me?_

“Hmm?”

“I asked if you could put those rocks over there into the hearth to warm.”

Sandor looked at the pair of rocks sitting a few feet away from the heart, “Oh, aye.” He carefully placed them near the burning logs and turned back around to see the little bird looking pale and feverish, still holding her knees to her chest while clutching at Theon’s hands.

“Thank you, Sandor, that will be all.”

_He’s dismissing me?_

“I… are you sure she’ll be alright?”

“Quite sure, please close the door behind you.”

“I can stay, if it would help… in case you need to carry her to the maester.” Theon barely looked strong enough to carry a kitten.

Theon huffed in obvious annoyance, “She won’t be going to the maester, now will you _please_ _leave_ so I can help her undress?”

_Undress?_

_Theon… help… the little bird… undress?_

He’d be jealous if he weren’t so perplexed by the mysterious nature of the little bird’s _relationship_ with the equally mysterious Greyjoy.


	19. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor confronts someone looking for answers

**Sandor**

The next day as his men broke for their midday meal Sandor went to court to see how the little bird fared. He had been worried for her the whole night. He’d been around enough ladies over the years, including Cersei Lannister, to know that the days of their moonblood were uncomfortable, and often painful, but never as crippling as what he’d seen in the little bird last night.

As he opened the doors of the Great Hall he found it completely empty. The small solar next to it was also vacant. He headed next to the large dining hall and, much to his concern, Sansa wasn’t there either. Scanning the room he found his target and approached a wide-eyed Theon Greyjoy who was sitting at an otherwise empty table. It would seem Sansa was his only _friend_ in the place.

Sandor plopped down directly across from him, “Talk.”

Theon eyed him, “What about?”

“Don’t play dumb you little shite stain.”

“If you have questions about Lady Sansa, I suggest you ask her.”

Sandor slammed a fist on the table, rattling Theon’s cup and earning glares from others in the hall. He ignored them, “I _would_ ask her, but I know I won’t get an answer.”

“Then perhaps you should take that as an indication that she doesn’t want you knowing her private affairs.”

“Oh, but she wants _you_ knowing? The turn cloak who betrayed one brother and murdered two others?”

Theon only stared at him, but a hint of remorse shone in his eyes before he asked, “What were you doing in her chambers last night?”

“Oh, so I’m supposed to answer _your_ questions?” Sandor huffed, “I wasn’t in her chambers when it started. She and I were in the Glass Gardens when her pain started.”

“Why were the two of you together in the gardens?”

“We were picking flowers! What do you think?” Again Theon only stared. Sandor sighed, “We were talking, just talking, same as always.”

“ _Always?_ You’ve been in the gardens with her before?”

“Not _always_ , but yes, a few times.”

“Why?”

“Why does it matter?” He was growing frustrated with the boy.

“It matters. Why are you spending time in the Glass Gardens together?”

Sandor sighed, “She goes there when she can’t sleep, apparently, and I do the same.”

“And all you do is talk?”

“That’s what I said isn’t it? Now I’ve answered your questions, are you going to answer mine?”

“What are your questions?”

Sandor rubbed his eyes, “Gods, are you daft? What was that last night? What caused her so much pain? And why would she suffer instead of taking the Poppy? Gods, if I was in that much pain, I’d drink a barrel of the stuff.”

“She won’t drink it.”

Sandor sighed again, more loudly, “I know that. I’m asking _why_.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all day boy.”

Theon’s eyes darted around but the hall was empty by now but for a few servants collecting dishes.

“There was a time, she’d had too much of it… or rather, had it too frequently, got something of a dependency on the stuff, was hard to get off.”

Sandor waved a hand in disbelief, “The girl barely drank sweetwine in the Red Keep.”

“It wasn’t her choice.”

Sandor paused. _Why would someone force another person to drink Milk of the Poppy? The stuff isn’t cheap._

“So whose choice was it?”

Theon didn’t answer, so Sandor took a guess, “The bastard’s?”

Theon didn’t agree but Sandor could tell by the look that flashed in his eyes face that he’d guessed correctly. He felt sick imagining the bastard plying her with the poppy to make her complacent. _Some men like when women put up a fight, others like to make their victims powerless…_

“He drugged her so she’d be pliable for him, that it?” Sandor didn’t like saying the words out loud but needed to know.

Theon shook his head, “The opposite.”

_The opposite? What the fuck does that mean?_ “You always speak in riddles, boy?”

“Why do you want to know this, anyway?”

_Because I care about her. Because she’s all I think about day and night. Because I want to help her._ “Just want to see she’s safe.”

“She’s safe. Are we done?” Theon stood to leave but Sandor pulled him down.

“Wait, just wait a minute.” This was Sandor’s best opportunity to get information about the little bird’s past, but he’d need to show her strange friend here that he had more than passing interest in the girl. “She and I… when we were in King’s Landing… well let’s just say…”

“I already know.”

“Know what?”

“How you _helped_ her, how you _cared_ for her.”

“She _told_ you that?” Sandor was shocked.

“Aye, she told me about you, her _knight_. How you saved her from the mob. How you saved her from Joffrey once or twice. Doesn’t seem to matter to her, all the times you _didn’t_ save her... all the times you did _nothing_.” Disgust was filling Theon’s voice.

“Look boy, you’ll get no argument from me. She’s built me up as some type of hero when in reality I was only just slightly less of a bastard than the rest of those fuckers.”

Theon’s eyes softened with something akin to sympathy, “Sounds like you were a little better than _that_.”

Sandor snorted, “Fair enough… what about you?”

“What about me?”

“I heard the stories… about when you sacked Winterfell. Why does she keep you in her service? Why does she keep you at all?”

Theon looked down at the table, “You’ll have to ask her that.”

“Guess.”

He sighed in reluctance, “I know how to put her back together”

“What in Seven Hells does that mean?”

“Sansa and I… I watched her being broken, so I know how to put the pieces back together.”

Suddenly it was as obvious as could be that Sansa wasn’t the only one who had been hurt by the bastard – the only one who’d been broken. Sandor studied Theon’s face – his faint scars were a sign, of course, and a few missing or broken teeth, but it was something else, something Sandor could sniff out from a mile away. Theon was afraid – or petrified, to be more precise.

Sandor tapped his fingers on the table, and forced himself to soften his tone, “How bad was it?”

Theon looked away, seemingly mulling over the right words to summarize their experience without giving away any details. He leaned closer, even though no one was around to listen, “Whatever you are imagining, whatever you _think_ may have happened… it was worse… a hundred times worse.”

“I can imagine a lot. I’ve _seen_ a lot, Hells, I’ve _done_ a lot.”

Theon shook his head slowly, “Take my word for it.”

“Can’t be as bad as you say, you take _my_ word for it… I’ve seen a woman who was gang-raped during the riots. She barely spoke afterwards, sat around drooling like a simpleton, probably still is as we speak.”

“Everyone breaks different.”

“You keep saying she’s broken, but Lady Sansa doesn’t look broken. I’m not denying she’s _different_ , a bit traumatized I’m sure… but she’s a bloody Queen, she’s running the largest kingdom in Westeros, you need a functioning brain to do that, at minimum.”

“Believe what you will, but if you care for her as you say you do, you’ll leave her be, don’t confuse her.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her. You can deny it if you want but I know your _interest_ in her is a little more than that of a loyal subject toward his Queen.”

Sandor swallowed, hard. “And what if it is, hmm? I’m not the only man who’d lust after a beautiful young queen.”

“No, but you’re the only one she’d want to.”

Sandor was stunned. Had Sansa confided something in Theon about her feelings toward him?

Hope must have glimmered in Sandor’s eyes for Theon raised his voice, though only slightly, and pointed at Sandor’s face, “See?! That’s what I’m talking about! You can’t _do_ that!”

“Do what?”

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about right _now_!” Theon shook his head, looking disgusted again, “Look, I don’t know or want to know what a man like _you_ wants from someone like her. But whatever it is – I’m telling you – she can’t handle it, and sooner or later, it’ll break her.”

“You think I’d force her to do something she doesn’t want?”

Theon shook his head, “Too bad you don’t listen as well as you talk.”

Sandor was about to continue the conversation when a swell of indignation rose up within him, “Who are you to tell me what to do or not do? I’d never hurt the girl! You think you know me, know her… know the fucking future?! You’re just some… some… what the fuck are you, anyway? Her shield? Her _maid?”_

Theon sighed, “I’m whatever she needs me to be,” His voice held no hint of pride. He spoke the words as if describing a duty… an obligation… a _burden_.


	20. Reek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Flashback) A peek into Sansa's time as Lady Bolton through a different pair of eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV in a flashback.

**Reek**

**16 months ago**

I bring the tray of food into her room. She is sleeping and I am glad of it. I hate seeing her – the pretty one with red hair – but Master married her and now I have to see her all the time. I hate watching what Master does to her at night, but what I hate most is how she reminds me that I wasn’t always Reek, that I was once someone else. It’s easy being Reek, it’s hard being _him_.

I place the tray down quietly, but the noise wakes her. I rush to leave but she calls out to me by that name – the name I hate hearing.

“Theon, wait!”

Her voice is pathetic, and it makes me angry. I want to walk out but Master said it’s not polite to ignore my lady, so I wait.

“Theon please! You have to help me! He’s going to kill me!”

“My name is Reek. You shouldn’t talk about Master that way.”

“Fine, Reek, won’t you help me? Please?”

“Master wouldn’t like that.”

“Th- Reek, please! I know it bothers you, too! I know watching hurts you. I know he has hurt you, too…”

“Master would never hurt me. Master made me better. Let him make you better, too, then it won’t hurt.”

“Theon, please!”

“I have to go now, my lady.”

I rush out the door and go straight to Master’s chambers. I knock on the open door.

“Ah, Reek, what a pleasant surprise, please come in.”

I can’t keep the panic out of my voice, “Master, the girl, she asked me to help her, but I told her I won’t!”

“Calm down, Reek, and remember your manners…”

I hate saying her name, but Master insists. “Sorry, Master. Lady S-Sansa asked me to help her, but I told her I won’t.”

“Is that all she said?”

“She said you will kill her, that you’re hurting her like you hurt me, but I told her that you never hurt me!”

“Anything else?”

I shake my head.

“Reek, you did the right thing by coming to me.” Master approaches me and takes both of my hands in his. “You know I would never kill her, right?” I know this, so I nod. “You know I love her, right? She is my wife. I love her as I love you, Reek.”

“I know Master, I love you, too”

**15 months ago**

The girl is sick every morning. The maester says she shouldn’t be sick this far along, but she is. Master makes me tend to her and I hate it. I hate holding her hair back. I hate emptying the chamber pot. At least she doesn’t ask me to help her escape anymore, she knows it will only bring her more pain. She’s learning to give Master what he wants, but she doesn’t like it. I see it in her eyes, and he sees it, too. He says it’s the wolf inside her, that she’s an animal that needs to be tamed, but I know he means _broken_.

Master says she will have a babe, but it won’t be his babe. It is her other husband’s baby. Not the dwarf, the other one. The one who died. Master says the babe will be a bastard even though they were married. The man’s seed was not worthy of her Stark blood. Strong Northern blood should only mix with other strong Northern blood. Like Bolton blood, he says.

The girl cries a lot now. She vomits and cries. Cries all day. The only time she stops is when she makes music on the strings. Master lets her have it, but I hate listening to it. She cries more at night. Master tells her to stop but I know he likes it.

**14 months ago**

The girl is big now. The maester says the babe will come in less than two moons. I don’t want it to come. I don’t want the girl to be here, either, but I’m used to her now. I’m even used to her music. The babe will be new, and I don’t like new things. Master will probably make me take care of it like he makes me take care of the girl. I will have to hold the ugly thing; I will have to change its nappies and it will stink.

The girl barely talks to me, even when I bring her food, even when I help her wash. She just stares out the window, or cries. One day I tried to be nice to her, I tried to tell her to let her wolf die so Master will stop hurting her. She hit me. She said I used to be a wolf, too, but I know she was lying.

When she does talk, she tells me stories, stories I don’t like because they remind me of being him. She says names I don’t like to hear, the names of her wolf brothers and sisters, mother and father. She says they were my family but that is a lie, too. Master is my only family.

She asks me to help her stand but it is a trick. When I reach for her arm, she grabs my hand hard and puts it on her belly. She is holding tight and won’t let go. I want to push her off, to hit her, but Master says I’m never to hurt her unless she tries to escape. She is holding my hand on her big ugly belly and whispering some words. I think she is humming. It sounds nice, like my mother used to.

And now I feel it, the babe inside her is moving and I feel it against my hand, and I don’t like it because it reminds me it is alive, it is another thing for Master to hurt.

But I feel something else now, too. I used to know what to call it, but I’ve forgotten. It’s the way I feel when Master gives me a treat, but it’s even better than that. It makes my chest feel full. What is this feeling called?

She speaks softly to me, “Theon, I know you’re in there. This is my child, and it is saying ‘hello’ to you. Soon you will meet it. It will be your niece or nephew. Does that make you happy?”

Happy? Is that what this feeling is?

She keeps talking, “You will be a good uncle, won’t you? You’ll take care of my babe the way you take care of me?”

I nod, because it is true, I realize I do want to take care of it, whether Master makes me or not. I hope he makes me. I hope he lets me.

“I know you will, Theon. You will help my babe. And when it grows up to be big and strong you will be a proud uncle, won’t you?”

That’s it – **proud!** That is the feeling.

I nod.

“Even if I’m not here, if something happens to me…”

I nod, and she cries tears of relief. “Thank you, Theon. Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote Reek in a very stream of conscious and infantile way as I believe this represents the state he was in after being broken by Ramsay. As always, I hope you enjoyed.


	21. Big Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor doesn't react well to some news.

**Sandor**

Sandor was never one to eat breakfast every day, he didn’t like going to the training yard with a full belly. But today, since he wouldn’t be doing much training due to his wound, he decided to take advantage. He’d gotten accustomed to the meager meals of the North – war had been hard on the lands and winter was here – but today he was pleasantly surprised to be greeted by the aroma of _bacon_. It was fairly common in the South, but he had never dared take it for granted. To Sandor Clegane, bacon was a delicacy of greater value than those tiny black fish eggs they ate in Dorne.

The mouth-watering smell wafting out of the dining hall was soon dwarfed by an even greater surprise: there, at the High Table, sat Sansa. She looked well, though a little pale, and was chatting with some pregnant serving girl who was pouring her tea.

As if sensing his presence, her eyes looked up and directly at Sandor, but quickly darted back to the girl.

_Avoiding me, eh? Fine by me, little bird._

Sandor found Brant, Cris, and some of his other men and sat next to them. Given his role as commander of the Wagon Guard, he was within his right to sit at the table with Daryl Poole, the Castellan Byrnard Ryswell, and the other officers and commanders, but he didn’t feel quite right sitting there. Sandor didn’t have a title, not that he wanted one, and though Poole was amicable enough most of the other men seemed uncomfortable in Sandor’s presence. He wasn’t certain if it was because of his size, his scars, or the fact that he had served the Lannisters, but imagined it was a combination of all three. His first few days in Winterfell he encountered frequent sneers and heard mumbles of “Joffrey’s dog”, “Hound”, “turn cloak”, “butcher” and other unsavory phrases. But on his fourth day the utterings abruptly stopped, even if the sneers did not. Sandor suspected the little bird had something to do with that, but never asked. The idea of her _ordering_ her people to be _nice_ to him didn’t sit right. He needed no friends and didn’t want the Queen defending him. He’d earn their respect or make do without it.

After the wagon attack was successfully defended many of the sneers stopped, as well, though there were still plenty of children, women, and even men who looked frightened any time he walked by.

He was half-listening to Brant and Cris complain about some work they were tasked with by the Head Mason when suddenly the men around him went silent. Lifting his head he saw they were all looking over his shoulder and bowing their heads slightly.

_Fuck._

He turned, “My lady.”

“Good morning, gentlemen, pardon my intrusion” she addressed the men around him, then looked at him, “Clegane, if you’d be so kind as to see me in my solar after you’ve finished your meal, I’d be much obliged. It shall only take a minute.”

He nodded, though she was already exiting the hall. From a few feet away he heard someone remark, “It would only take me a minute with her, too.”

Sandor snapped his head around and saw other men doing the same – glaring at some pock-marked young guard Sandor didn’t recognize – probably a new arrival.

The boy blushed, “What?”

Sandor didn’t get the chance to defend his lady’s honor, as an older guard spoke first, “Watch your tongue, boy, unless you want to lose it.”

“Or some other bits…” another guard added. A few men snickered, but from the next table Poole and Ryswell shot them scathing glares, and they returned to eating their meals in shamed silence.

Sandor suddenly had no appetite, but he forced himself to finish his bacon and took a few bites of egg before sliding the half-empty plate across to Brant.

A few minutes later he was in Sansa’s solar – the one next to the Great Hall.

“Come in, Clegane, and please close the door.”

Before him sat the Ice Queen, giving no hint as to the subject of the conversation they were about to have, though he had an idea.

She rose and clasped her hands in front of her as she walked, back straight as an arrow, to stand not one foot in front of him, with the back of her legs pressed against her desk. He’d never liked being talked to by someone standing while he sat, so accustomed was he to being taller than nearly everyone.

She looked in his eyes, hands still clasped together, “I doubt I need to tell you this, but I’d rather not make any assumptions in this regard... It is important to me that no one knows about my… condition.”

He expected her to continue but she didn’t. “Your _condition?”_

She nodded, “The other night? Surely you have not forgotten...”

“Aye, I remember the other night, I just don’t know what _condition_ you’re referring to. You told me it was your moonblood, I’m fairly certain anyone would expect you and every other woman your age to have that _condition.”_

She looked at him as if he should know more than he was letting on, but he truly didn’t.

“I meant, more specifically, about the _severity_ of my condition.”

“You don’t have to worry about me telling anybody about that, though I must say it’s going to be a difficult secret to keep if you go around collapsing once every moon.”

She shook her head defiantly, “That was an unfortunate exception. It came on unexpectedly and intensified rapidly. That has never happened before, and I hope it will never happen again.”

Sandor nodded, though he didn’t share her confidence.

Something about this entire discussion seemed odd… _Does she really think she needs to tell me not to go around gossiping about her_ moonblood _? Does she think that’s what men talk about in the training yard?_

It occurred to him that there was more she wasn’t saying but knew by now it would do no good to press her. Perhaps it wasn’t her moonblood as she’d claimed, maybe she was seriously ill and trying to hide it from her people for risk of being usurped.

“Well as I said, your secret is safe with me. Though – and I know it’s none of my concern – I hope you’ve seen the maester about this. Even if you don’t want the Poppy, mayhap he can help.”

“You’re right…”

_I am?_

“…it’s none of your concern.”

He was stunned. A few nights ago she was stitching him up, joking with him, speaking about the battle (though in typical fashion omitting any details). Then two nights ago she confided in him her insecurities about her people wanting her to marry… and now she was treating him like a stranger. It was maddening that he never knew which version of Sansa he would get – the little bird, or the _Ice Queen._

“But it’s _Theon’s_ business?”

She sighed, “I’d rather _no one_ knew, but unfortunately that was unavoidable.”

“Anyone else know?”

“Only Brienne and Jaime – also unavoidable.”

“Jaime?”

A rare blush spread to her cheeks, and she turned her head away from his gaze.

“Jaime _Lannister?”_ he snarled.

“Yes.”

Sandor shot up from his chair so abruptly that Sansa flinched.

“He’s _here_?! He’s with you?!”

“Not _presently_ ; I sent him and Brienne away on a mission a few moons ago…”

Sandor ran his hands through his hair, “First the squid who betrayed your family, sacked your home, killed your brothers… now the _lion_ who killed your father’s men, the son of the man whose armies destroyed your brother’s, the brother of the woman who tormented you in King’s Landing, the _father_ of the brat who ordered you beaten and humiliated… Who else have you taken into your service? Is my brother hiding behind a curtain somewhere?”

Her face reddened again, but this time it was rage, not embarrassment. She stepped closer to him and it was everything he could do not to retreat.

“You seem to be forgetting about the _Lannister_ _Hound_ …”

“I haven’t forgotten! I already told you your recollection of my _virtues_ is flawed. I’d not have blamed you if you’d taken my head or sent me to the Wall. I didn’t ask for help; I didn’t ask to stay.”

“No, but I gave you a choice, and you _chose_ to stay.”

“Is that what happened with the fucking Kingslayer? You caught him, and gave him the _choice_ to serve you or go to the Wall? And you think because he chose to stay that means he won’t stab you in the back the first chance he gets? You think you sent him and the big wench on a mission? He’s probably in Cersei’s bed as we speak, telling her all about the stupid little wolf in the north.”

_[Smack!]_

The stinging of his cheek was the only sign that he’d just been slapped. He didn’t even see her hand fly up, it was so quick. The pain he felt in the scarred skin that had long ago become nearly numb to all sensation was a testament to how hard she had hit him.

With all traces of anger gone from her voice she continued, with the sternness of issuing a royal decree, “If you disapprove of my choice of company, you are free to go. Go to the Wall, sail to Braavos, go back to Clegane Keep – I care not. But if you stay you _will_ accept my decisions and dare not challenge them in such a manner again. I owe you no explanation, but I will give you one anyway, as a courtesy to you though you show me none in return: if you think I am _ignorant_ of Jaime Lannister’s past sins, past actions against my family, you are wrong. I know more about his _crimes_ than you ever will. I also know every evil deed he has ever done was done in the name of either duty or family. You of all people should be sympathetic to someone doing horrible things out of _duty_ , or under _orders…”_

“And if you think Jaime fell into my lap then _tricked_ me into mercy, you are also wrong. Jaime – _and_ Brienne – sought _me_ out to protect me. They found me at my weakest and would have met no resistance in killing me or bringing me back to King’s Landing. Instead they saved me, protected me, swore themselves to me. They saved my life and fought alongside me for no reward other than _honor_ – that thing you place so little value in. Jaime Lannister faced more than a few stick-wielding peasants to protect me, so in that regard he’s proven more useful than you ever have…”

“So if you harbor any small amount of care for me, as I had hoped you might, the only words you’ll have for Jaime Lannister upon his return will be words of _thanks._ ”

There was a long pause as she waited for his reply.

“Is that all then, my lady?”

“It is, thank you for your time, and for your discretion on the matter we discussed.”

She returned to her seat and continued whatever task she’d paused for him. He walked out without looking back.

\--------------------------------------------------------

During the short walk to the training yard, Sandor went from anger to shame to confusion, back to anger, and then to jealousy.

_Fucking balls!_

[Whack]

_Gods-be-damned cunt!_

[Whack]

_Fucking son of a whore!_

[Whump]

_Who the fuck does she think I am? Is she trifling with me on purpose? One day sweet and giggling, feeding me a fucking strawberry, mending my wounds, and the next talking to me like I’m nothing but a speck of dirt on her boot?_

[Whack]

_And what the fuck is the bloody Kingslayer doing here? Why didn’t she kill him on sight, that sister-fucking cunt?! Has he found a new taint to bury his pretty face in, this one red instead of blond? Has she finally found her handsome_ true knight _?_

[Crack]

Sandor looked up to see not just his own men but every other man in the training yard staring at him. If it was possible to take pity on a strawman they were doing so in that moment.

“Fuck you looking at? Got nothing better to do?”

The men went back to their exercises, but Poole approached him.

_Just what I need._

“Bad morning, friend?”

_I’m not your bloody friend._ Sandor grumbled, “Just haven’t swung in a couple days. I’m letting out what’s built up.”

“Hah, whatever _that_ was has been building up for more than a couple days!”

“Have you a point, _Ser?”_

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with whatever our Queen wished to see you about, would it?”

“What would make you think that?”

“Well, let’s see, one minute you’re happily eating bacon – or at least as happily as you ever do anything – then you’re summoned to speak to the Queen – then you’re out here hacking at a strawman like he fucked your mother.”

“Don’t you have men to be training, or do I need to do that for you, too?” Poole didn’t deserve that; Sandor knew the man was up to his eyeballs in green boys needing to be turned into soldiers, he hardly had time to focus on defending the wagon shipments. Nonetheless, the man was bothering Sandor, and among Sandor’s many skills was the ability to identify a person’s insecurities – valid or not – and exploit them.

His jab had the intended effect as Poole shook his head, but just when Sandor thought the man had given up, he pressed on, “Are you always this nasty to people who are trying to be nice to you?”

“Wouldn’t know, haven’t been at the receiving end of _nice_ too many times.”

“Oh that’s right, you’re the scarred old dog who’s been kicked around all his life. Doesn’t it get boring feeling sorry for your—"

Something snapped and before he knew it was happening Sandor’s hand was around the smaller man’s throat. He was pressing him against the outside wall of the armory. “Did our _queen_ tell you that’s what I am, hmm? Bet you had a nice laugh over it, too, didn’t you, while you were warming her bed!”

It took three men to pull him off, though it would have taken more if Sandor hadn’t finally come to his senses and let go of Poole’s neck.

Rubbing his throat the man croaked, “Are you fucking _insane_?!”

Sandor took in the faces around him – some filled with horror, others with anger, others with plain old confusion. “Might be I am, so best find someone else to be _nice_ to… I don’t need your kindness, or your pity, or your fucking nose in my affairs.”

Sandor strode to the stables without addressing his men, saddled Stranger, and rode to Winter Town, glad his few coins were still sewn into his breeches, because he planned on getting piss drunk.

\--------------------------------------------------------

“Woman troubles, friend?” the old barkeep at the Drunken Dog was staring at Sandor, his only customer at ten o’clock in the morning, save the man slouched in the corner, probably there since the prior night.

“Very funny,” no one who looked upon his face ever assumed Sandor had a woman, certainly not one worth being _troubled_ over, “do I have to pay extra for your japes?”

The man laughed, “On the house! Though I wasn’t japing. I’ve seen _that look_ enough times to know what it means.” The man circled his finger in front of Sandor’s face, earning a light smack to the hand, though it didn’t seem to bother him.

“And what look is that?”

The barkeep sighed, “The look of a man who’s fucked up, knows he’s fucked up, but doesn’t know how to un-fuck things up.”

“Is that so? Mayhap in this case you’ve got it backwards, and it’s the woman who’s fucked up.”

“Hah! Any woman kind-hearted enough to keep your company can do no wrong.”

“You seem to know a lot about me, _friend._ ”

“Alright, prove me wrong. Tell me what this _lady love_ of yours has done to make you so cross?”

_None of your bloody business, that’s what_.

But secretly, Sandor missed having someone ask him for his thoughts. He’d gone nearly thirty years without having anyone care what he had to say, then two straight years with Elder Brother, who cared deeply about what all his people had to say. Despite resisting it every time, Sandor always felt somehow _cleansed_ after talking to the old monk.

“Fine then, since you’ve got nothing better to do,” Sandor threw his thumb over his shoulder to point at the empty room, “and she’s not my _lady love_ by the way, just a friend… not even that, really…”

“She may not be your friend, but you’re _her_ friend, is that the way of it?”

Sandor shrugged, “Fair enough.”

“And she may not love you, but you love her?”

_So badly it hurts._ “I wouldn’t go that far.”

The barkeep was unconvinced, but let Sandor continue, “Sometimes she wants my advice, listens to my advice… trusts me with certain matters, but now she’s done something I know is a mistake, and she wouldn’t even hear me out about it. Didn’t even give me a chance to try to convince her to correct it… the mistake.”

“And this is a serious mistake?”

“A matter of life and death, potentially.”

“ _Her_ life?”

Sandor shrugged again, “Most likely, but possibly others as well.”

“So her life to risk, which means her decision to make…”

Sandor sighed. He didn’t know how to tell the man that her mistakes could affect the entire Northern Kingdom without the man figuring out that the _subject_ of this conversation was Queen Sansa. “Doesn’t mean she shouldn’t heed my counsel about it.”

“No, it does not… And you’re certain this action she’s taken is indeed a mistake?”

Sandor didn’t like where this was heading… “I’ve seen enough shite to know nothing is ever _certain_ until it’s happening, but I’d put good coin on it, yes.”

“This friend of yours, does she generally have good judgment?”

“Generally yes, she’s smarter than most, and wiser than she has any right to be, but she has a tendency to see only the good in people – to put her trust in the wrong people.”

“And is that the nature of this mistake – she is trusting the _wrong people_?”

“Person, but yes.”

“And you’re the _right_ type of person to trust?”

“I’m the _last_ person anyone should trust, but she does, and I’ll do no wrong by her.”

“But this other person will?”

“Like I said, I can’t predict the future, but I’d put my coin on it.”

“Alright, let me see if I have this straight: you think you’re the wrong person to trust, yet it’s actually _right_ that she trusts you, but you also think this other man is the wrong person to trust, yet it’s _not right_ that she trusts him.”

Sandor was getting frustrated, he hated when logic was used against him. “I thought barkeeps were supposed to be _sympathetic ears_ , not bloody Septas with their lectures.”

The man laughed, “Friend, I’m as sympathetic as you’re going to find around here. I’m also honest, but if you’d prefer I lie to you…”

“Oh Seven Hells!” Sandor waved a hand, “You know that’s not what I mean. There are enough liars in this buggery of a world, and I’ve got no patience for any of them.”

“Alright, I’ll take that as permission to continue… So this man, has he ever done anything to harm your lady friend?”

Sandor had to think about it. The little bird and the Kingslayer had few interactions in the Red Keep, as Jaime had been a Stark prisoner during most of her time there. The few times he’d seen them conversing Jaime had always been respectful if not over-friendly. And there was that one time… Sandor had almost forgotten, but there was one time when Jaime came to Joffrey and tried to convince the little brat to stop mistreating his betrothed. It was a wasted effort, of course, but he had at least tried.

He had to answer honestly, though it pained him to do so, “No, to my knowledge he has never harmed her, at least not directly.”

“And he’s had opportunity?”

Sandor sighed, “Yes, according to her, ample opportunity.”

“So why do you find him so untrustworthy? Has he wronged you at some point?”

Sandor had to think again and was again disappointed to admit that Jaime had never wronged Sandor, and many years ago he even tried to befriend him.

“No, he never wronged me… though he’s been a bloody prick enough times.”

The man snorted, “And I’m sure you’ve always been nothing but pleasant to him!” Sandor hated sarcasm, except when he was the one wielding it.

“I fear we’re not getting anywhere,” the man continued, “how about you just tell me why this man has earned your suspicion?”

“Because of who he is, his record for wrongdoing, for dishonor and betrayal; not just him but his whole bloody _family_!” Sandor was getting dangerously close to revealing too much; if Jaime had spent some time in Winterfell with Lady Sansa it’s likely the townsfolk knew about it.

“Ahh, I see. Guilty by association. You judge him based on his _family’s_ actions.”

“Mostly, I suppose, but his own, too.” _Like slaying the mad king Aerys II, who, by all accounts, was even crueler than Joffrey. And Sandor had many times been tempted to put his sword through Joffrey’s back even if it meant losing his own head._

The barkeep sighed, and for the first time all morning he did look genuinely sympathetic to Sandor’s woes, “I have no doubt your concerns have merit, and more importantly that they are driven by a desire to protect your lady friend. But if I may offer a bit of advice, as a man who’s seen easily twice as many years as you…”

“Go on, then, spit it out.”

“It’s easy to judge a man’s actions, but it’s much harder to judge his motives. At your age you’ve seen more years of war than peace, more times of poverty than prosperity… War and poverty force people into actions they’d never commit otherwise, because the choices they face are shite either way: steal or starve, kill or be killed, betray his Lord to save his family… if you only saw a man’s actions – the choices he made, you’d know him to be a thief, a murderer, and a traitor…”

Sandor finished the thought, “But if you saw the alternatives…”

The man smiled, “Exactly… so trust the man or don’t, but try to find out his motives before you judge his actions.”

Sandor nodded and went to pay the man, only them realizing he’d only drank one horn of ale. He left him another copper anyway, when the man was looking away.

Riding back to the castle he looked at the tall maples and oaks around him, frosted branches swaying in the winter breeze. He laughed at himself as he pondered if, here in the North, wisdom grew on trees.


	22. Apologies and Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor tries to set things right. 
> 
> (Note: takes place immediately following Chapter 22)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo.... I know my chapters and overall story are way too long. I've never possessed the skill of brevity, and find editing down text to be laborious and none too fun. Plus it's what I do for a living, among other things, so in my free time I prefer to let my mind run about unreined. 
> 
> To quote Pascal: "I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time."
> 
> Then again, we're all fans of GRRM who probably has never been accused of being succinct. Where he is heavy on details I am heavy on dialogue. I love dialogue - reading it, writing it. Hope you do, too. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading.

**Sandor**

There were few things Sandor Clegane despised more than _apologizing_. He always found the act to be insincere, but that was usually because anytime he’d been made to apologize in his life, he’d never had any real regret. He spoke the words and hated the taste of the lie on his tongue. He’d only ever done it to his masters – Tywin Lannister, then Cersei Lannister, then Joffrey Baratheon – and it had been rare because he rarely displeased or disobeyed them. His reputation for _obedience_ was well-earned, though he spent nearly two decades not letting himself ask if those masters were worthy of it.

So after riding back from Winter Town, as he went to the Great Hall, he felt like he was steeling himself for battle. He intended to observe the court proceedings then seek Sansa out afterward to apologize for his outburst that morning.

It was only an hour past midday but there were just three petitioners left. The hall was mostly empty save for Sansa herself, Theon, a handful of guards, and a half dozen spectators. Some old bat was complaining to Sansa about how the neighboring farmer was refusing to honor their agreed-upon exchange rate for milk and corn. It seemed the old bat raised dairy cows and the farmer grew corn, but that’s about as much minutiae as Sandor was capable of listening to before nearly dozing off against the rear wall. His head snapped up and he instinctively put a hand on his sword pommel when he heard the doors swing open. He relaxed when he saw it was Maester Damon entering, scroll in hand. The man didn’t bother apologizing for the interruption. He whispered in Sansa’s ear and handed her the scroll. She read it and even from Sandor’s station in the back of the room he could see her face go white as a sheet. She collected herself, thanked and dismissed the maester, and told the woman to continue. 

For those final three petitions Sansa was composed but noticeably distracted. She made her rulings and, once done, walked brusquely from the hall, with Theon in her wake. Neither of them made eye contact with Sandor or seemed to even notice his presence. After they were several paces ahead, Sandor followed quietly. They exited into the courtyard and headed straight for the maester’s turret.

Sandor was more than a little concerned about the nature of the correspondence Sansa had received, but he knew it was not his place to inquire. With few other options, Sandor walked to the training yard, prepared to deliver the _other_ apology that he owed.

Poole was standing near the fence, shouting some guidance at a pair of men sparring with wooden swords. When he spotted the large man approaching his face went red, first with alarm, then with anger. Sandor could see the bruise already forming on the man’s neck. _Fuck._

_How does one even start an apology that hasn’t been demanded? Do I just spit it out? Do I explain myself? Should I make a jape?_

Poole disarmed him of his uncertainty, tugging at his own collar in an exaggerated fashion, “I’ve only got the one neck, so if you’re going to break something, might I request it be an arm or a leg?”

Sandor was relieved enough to chuckle and even to pay the man a compliment, “I’ve always admired a man who can take a thrashing and still laugh about it, especially when the thrashing was undeserved.”

Poole shook his head, “I’ll not deny your reaction was a bit _extreme_ , but I should not have called you a dog.”

“I snapped at you like a dog, you were right to point it out.”

“Well, then, let’s agree to share the blame.”

“We can share the blame, but you still owe me a thrashing.”

“You have something in mind?”

“Dealer’s choice,” Sandor quickly amended, “ _Just…_ not between the legs, if you’ll oblige me.”

Poole laughed, “That goes without saying.”

Sandor closed his eyes, “Alright then, get on with it.” After several painless seconds he opened one eye, “Don’t make me wait, don’t you know the anticipation is the worst part?”

“Then it sounds like fair retribution, but no, I don’t think I’ll take you up on your offer.”

“What, I’m going to _owe_ you instead, that it?”

“No, it just occurs to me that physical pain isn’t the worst punishment a man like you can endure.”

Sandor’s face must have looked aghast for Poole laughed, “Whatever you’re thinking – _no._ I was thinking you could tell me what got you heated up this morning.”

“Fine, you can kick me in the balls.”

Poole laughed again, “That bad, eh?”

Sandor was about to tell him to fuck off when he realized that Poole may be able to help with his _Kingslayer_ dilemma. If Poole had served Sansa since the beginning, he’d likely have met Jaime, maybe even fought beside him.

Sandor lowered his voice, “I’d just found out the Kingslayer is here… well not _here_ at the moment…”

Poole looked confused, “Jaime Lannister?” 

“Aye, is there another Kingslayer I should know about?”

“Well, allegedly, Tyrion Lannister, not to mention Lady Sansa herself.”

Sandor had forgotten that Tyrion and Sansa were accused of Joffrey’s murder, though he now felt a fool for doing so. He was surprised that Cersei hadn’t led an army here herself to kill Sansa after losing her _beloved_ Joffrey. He’d have to ask Sansa about _that_ situation at a later date, though.

“Yes, I’m referring to Jaime Lannister.”

“And it bothers you that he’s here?”

“Not bothers, _worries_ , he’s a Lannister, he’s her enemy.”

“Please don’t strangle me for saying this, but weren’t _you_ a Lannister, as well?”

“I _served_ the Lannisters, I wasn’t one of them.”

“So _choosing_ to serve the Lannisters is acceptable, but being born of their blood is not?”

Poole was now the second man in one day that Sandor wanted to beat bloody just for making sense.

“Look, I’m not talking about me. Trust me or don’t, I don’t give a hot fart, tell me what you know of the _Kingslayer_.”

Poole exhaled loudly, “I know he has served Lady Sansa valiantly since she escaped the Boltons, I know he fought for her cause in the Battle for the North, I know she trusts him enough to send him on a mission to find her sister, and I _think_ , for what it’s worth, that his _Lannister_ family no longer has his affection. Now, if you’re asking whether _I_ trust Ser Jaime, I’d say, _partly.”_

“Partly? How do you _partly_ trust someone?”

“Do you trust me?”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “ _Partly.”_

“Well that’s how you do it.”

“So you don’t worry he’ll betray her?”

“Anyone can betray her, Lannister or no. In the past four years I’ve seen Northmen betray Northmen, I’ve seen Baratheon betray Baratheon, I’ve seen Greyjoy betray Stark, I’ve seen Frey betray Stark, I’ve seen Bolton betray Stark, I’ve seen Stark betray Frey…”

“I get your point, but do you _think_ he will?”

Poole sighed again, “Truly, what you’re asking is less a matter of loyalty and more a matter of _aptitude.”_

“Meaning?” Sandor was growing impatient. _Can no one speak plainly in the North?_

“I _do_ believe Ser Jaime is loyal to Lady Sansa, but more importantly, I don’t believe he has the aptitude for _espionage_ and _farce,_ which would be required to gain our Lady’s trust over many months – to pretend to be her ally, her friend, to pretend to hate his own family, to covertly be reporting her secrets back to them... Say what you will about the man, but he’s got no _guile._ He has a keen mind for battle, yes, but that’s different than having a mind for deception.”

“You say he’s got no guile, but he deceived the whole realm into _not_ knowing he was fucking his sister, the bloody Queen.”

Poole raised an eyebrow, “ _Did_ he though? Find me one person over the age of ten that didn’t know Jaime was bedding Cersei, or rather, that Cersei was bedding Jaime.”

_Fuck it, he’s right. It was the worst kept secret in the realm, in no small part due to the way the Kingslayer could never hide his affection for his sister, or his jealousy when other men caught her fancy._

Sandor was snapped back to reality when Poole literally flicked him in the forehead. At any other time from any other man it would be enough to earn a broken finger, but he still owed Poole for this morning. The man sighed, “Look, Clegane… Jaime is an arrogant bloke, even without his sword hand, but I don’t think his intent is to betray our Queen, or otherwise harm her.”

Sandor nodded, as reassured as he was going to get on the matter. Poole turned to return to his neglected men just as Sandor shouted to his back, “What do you mean, ‘without his sword hand’?”

\-----------------------------------------------------------

It would seem his apology to Poole would have to be enough for that day. Sandor barely saw the little bird the rest of the afternoon, and each time he did she was scurrying about, giving orders to some servant or the steward, completely oblivious to anyone else’s presence – including his. She was also absent from the evening meal which Sandor had come to recognize as unusual.

He considered seeking her out in her solar that evening but decided against it. She seemed preoccupied and he didn’t want to be another _matter_ for her to have to deal with.

So he was surprised when, just after nine o’clock that evening, a polite knock sounded on his door. He threw on his tunic and opened the door to find the little bird standing there. “Sandor, good evening. I apologize for the late hour, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she peered inside the room as if expecting to find a wench in his bed.

“No apology needed, my lady.” He hesitated, “Would you care to come in?”

She nodded, “Thank you.” He pulled out a chair for her before lowering himself into the other. He watched her as she scraped her teeth against her bottom lip, eyes pointed at him though clearly her mind was elsewhere.

_Is she waiting for me to talk?_ He cleared his throat, “My lady, before you begin, if I may, I’d like to apologize for my behavior this morning, it was uncalled for. It won’t happen again.”

After a confused pause she spoke, “Oh, yes, I accept your apology,” then she forced a stern look into her countenance, “though I believe it is _Ser Daryl_ you should be apologizing to.”

“I already have.”

“You did?!” she did a poor job of hiding her shock.

“Aye, this afternoon, just after court.”

“That’s good, I’m glad to hear it. That was one of the matters I was coming to address, but I trust you two have settled your differences.”

“We have. I take it Poole told you what happened?”

She shook her head, “No, that is not his way. One of the men who witnessed the _altercation_ reported it to me, though I will not tell you who.”

“I don’t need to know, and for the record I’d not hold it against the man.” Sandor was surprised to feel genuinely ashamed of his behavior, “It was a violent outburst, and I’m new here. They should report any such incidents; lots of unknown people here, the only way to keep the place safe is by being vigilant.”

She frowned, “If you’re trying to make a point about my trusting Ser Jaime…”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. If Jaime has earned your trust, well… I won’t say he’s earned mine, but I’m willing to give him the chance. He wasn’t the _worst_ Lannister, that’s for sure, not by a mile.”

Sansa’s eyebrows rose, “Cersei _does_ set a standard that is hard to meet.”

Sandor chuckled, “So what is the other matter, my lady?”

“What? Oh… I received a raven today, from Castle Black, from my brother Jon. Are you aware he is the current Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”

“I am.”

“Well you may _not_ be aware, because I’ve tried not to spread panic, but Jon is quite concerned… This stays between you and I, just to be clear...”

“Of course.”

“Good, as I was saying, Jon is quite concerned about a rather large threat. I know it’s difficult to believe, but… wait, you _would_ know about this: your friends Ser Beric and Thoros said it’s the reason you were heading to the Wall…”

Sandor furrowed his brow, “The _army_ of the dead? Yes, they’d mentioned it. Between you and I, girl, I think they’ve been staring into flames too long; I think their eyes are playing tricks on them.”

She shook her head firmly, “I only wish that were true. I’ve seen it for myself.”

“Hah! Didn’t take you for a fire worshipper, little bird.”

“No, I’ve seen one of the dead, in the flesh, so to speak, at the Wall.”

Sandor was beginning to wonder if Theon wasn’t right: the little bird had lost her wits. “What do you mean you’ve _seen_ one?”

“It doesn’t matter but I need you to believe me. Jon and his brothers keep one in a crate. They call it a wight. It looks like a decomposed corpse, but it moves and fights with the ferocity of a rabid dog. Surely, you’ve heard the tales of the wights and White Walkers? The Night King?”

“Aye, I’ve heard the tales, I’ve also heard of unicorns and grumpkins and dragons and fish the size of ships, doesn’t mean any of it is true.”

Sansa chewed her lip, “Well in this case, I can tell you without doubt that the wights are real, and if my brother and his men are to be believed, so are the White Walkers…”

Sandor rubbed his eyes, “Alright, you’ve seen this _wight_. One wight. Are you certain it is what you say it is? Perhaps it is some undiscovered disease. People with grayscale were once thought to be half man half lizard.”

She clasped his hands desperately as if trying to pass what she’d seen into his mind through their contact, but all he felt was the tingling in his groin he experienced every time she touched him. “Sandor, I can promise you that what I saw was no living, breathing, person – diseased or otherwise. A man cannot live with hardly any skin on his bones!”

Sandor pulled his hand back, not ungently, “Alright, let’s say I believe you, what does this have to do with me?”

“It doesn’t, at least not directly, it’s just necessary so that you will understand what I’m about to tell you… Jon has been in communication via raven with Daenerys Targaryen…”

“The daughter of the Mad King? The one the Baratheons and Lannisters have been trying to execute for the past four years? Thought they’d have succeeded by now.”

“So would I… I apologize, I forget that you were living in a rather isolated community the past two years. I suppose there is much you don’t know…”

_Like everything that happened to you…_

“…Well Daenerys has managed to amass an army of over 100,000 soldiers – mostly Dothraki horsemen and freed slaves called Unsullied.”

“I’ve heard of both. If that’s true, then she should have little problem taking the Iron Throne.”

“Perhaps, though I’ve learned not to underestimate Tywin and Cersei Lannister. Willingness to commit atrocities seems to serve one well in times of war… You can ask Walder Frey.”

“Little bird…” she hadn’t said much about her family’s murder since Sandor had been in Winterfell.

She waved a hand, “It’s alright, I stopped pitying the dead a long time ago; if anything they should pity us.”

Sandor snorted. _Sad but true._

Sansa ran a hand through her hair, “Where was I? Oh yes… Jon has been communicating with Daenerys, they’ve even been trade partners, of a sort: Daenerys ships him dragonglass her people mine beneath Dragonstone. It is the only material with which the wights and White Walkers can be killed. Well that and Valyrian steel. The Night’s Watch has been forging dragonglass weapons for months now.”

“This is all very interesting, little bird, but why are you telling me this at nine o’clock at night?”

“Because, in less than a sennight, Daenerys Targaryen will be here, in Winterfell, with her dragons, to meet with myself, Jon, and some of my bannermen about terms of an alliance – of her lending her support to defeat the Night King’s army.”

Sandor blinked for several seconds, “Dragons?”

“Yes, three fully-grown dragons, if her claims are true, though we don’t need to waste time wondering, we will find out soon enough.”

Sandor’s head was spinning. _Corpses come to life? Dragons?_ Always a man of action he tried to focus on something achievable, “Right, so you want me to help prepare the castle for an attack, in case this meeting turns hostile, or she is not truly here to help?”

Sansa smiled at him, “I fear if her intentions are dishonest there is little we can do, at this point, to prepare to fight fire-breathing dragons, but I do need your help, if you are willing to lend it.”

“You know I am. Whatever it is, ask it.”

“Firstly, I’ve ordered more provisions from White Harbor in anticipation of our guests’ arrival. I’d rather not spend the coin, but I can’t very well play ungrateful hostess to the people who helped me retake my home, or the woman who may help us save the North.”

“When will the shipment come in?”

“Three days from now, at dawn, the supplies will be at Castle Cerwyn.”

“I’ll inform the men tomorrow; we’ll be ready to depart after supper in two days’ time.”

She smiled appreciatively, “Thank you.”

He nodded, “What else?”

She chewed her lip again, which he now knew to mean she was unconfident in what she was about to say, though secretly he found it quite endearing.

“It’s alright to say ‘no’, truly, it’s just there is no one else I trust enough to ask, not _present_ anyway, but really it will be alright if—”

He rolled his eyes, “Out with it, little bird, you know I hate chirping.”

“I’d like to ask if you’d stand with me, as my shield, when Daenerys arrives, and maybe afterwards, as well. If it please you…”

_Get to be near you all day long? Get to watch your hips sway as I walk behind you? Get to kill any bugger that steps too close to you?_

“I…”

She took his hesitation for refusal, “It’s alright, you don’t have to…”

“I will, of course I will. It’s only that I thought Theon was your shield.”

“Theon stands with me at times, it’s true. And I trust him to keep me safe – he may not look like much but he’s good with a sword and a bow, and he’d kill for me in an instant – it’s just that it’s not what he _wants_ to do. He isn’t comfortable with it, I know. Especially when there is a crowd.”

“So you’ve never named a shield?”

“Truthfully, no. It would be Brienne or Jaime, though I don’t know how long they’ll be gone, and besides – they are not quite what I’m looking for.”

“And what’s that, other than the obvious?”

“Someone who will be honest with me, as you always have.”

“I thought you said you trust Jaime and Brienne.”

“I do, absolutely, but trusting someone to protect you and trusting someone to be honest with you, to give you sound counsel… well they are two different things, don’t you agree?”

“I do, though I’m not sure how _sound_ my counsel will be. I speak with my sword, not my tongue.”

She smirked, “Do you never stop underestimating yourself?”

“Just being honest, like you asked. I’m not sure I’m your best choice.”

“Even if Brienne and Jaime were here, I need someone… _different_. Brienne is so rigidly focused on doing the _honorable_ thing. It is what I respect most about her, but I know the world is not that simple. Being honorable is only the right course of action when the people you’re dealing with are equally honorable. My father taught me that lesson when he chose to treat Cersei with _honor_ and lost his head for it...”

“As for Ser Jaime, I value his opinions, but he is often reticent to share them; he doubts his own instincts. Between you and I, I think that after spending all of his life blindly following Cersei he now believes he is incapable of thinking for himself. He replaced one queen with another... He’s a man looking for someone to follow. Perhaps even a boy looking for a mother…”

Sandor smiled with pride, “Wise little bird, indeed. I hate to think how you’ve got _me_ all figured out…”

Sansa blushed, “I don’t mean to insult them, or betray them. In fact, I’m going to offer them permanent positions when they return, most likely Master-at-Arms for Jaime. I’m sure you’ll disapprove.”

“Not exactly. You’ll find no better military mind, not to mention his battle experience… though I’d only caution that it will put him in a difficult position, should you ever find yourself facing the Lannisters in battle. You can trust him all you want, but ask a man to kill his blood – his sister, his father – his _son_ … I’d think hard on it, little bird.”

She nodded, “That is a good point, it’s one thing if he is but a soldier, I could always give him the option to not bear arms against his family, but as our commander he’d be duty-bound to do just that…”

“Aye. Speaking of which, where do you stand with the Lannisters? As your shield it would be helpful to know whether to expect Cersei’s assassins at any moment…”

Sansa arched a brow, “We should never rule out _that_ possibility…”

“Truly though, I haven’t heard much about them… Is there something of a truce in place?”

Sansa shrugged, “Not formally. I suspect Tywin Lannister is too smart to attack the North during winter, even weakened as we are. We may have Daenerys Targaryen to thank as well. They say it will be some months before she has the fleet needed to transport her armies to Westeros, but a siege of the North, could easily last that long. I doubt Tywin Lannister would take the risk.”

“You’ve got the Great Lion summed up well enough, though Cersei is less predictable, and surprisingly cunning, even if short-sighted. You’d be wise to keep an eye on your almost-former-goodmother.”

Sansa faked a shudder, much to Sandor’s amusement, “I’ll heed your counsel, Sandor. It seems I must get my own _Master of Whispers_ … For my part though I won’t provoke them. I don’t want war, all I wish for the North is peace, as we had for thousands of years.”

“And I wish for a whole face, but I’m not holding my breath.”

Sansa cocked her head slightly and narrowed her eyes, seemingly studying his face. It made Sandor uncomfortable; he could forget about his disfigurement until someone was staring at it.

After some moments the scrutiny was unbearable, “Not polite to stare girl.”

She snapped out of her daze, “Sorry, I was just… thinking about something.”

“About how beautiful I am?” he snorted.

“Something like that.”

_Is this a cruel jape? I’d expect that from anyone but_ her.

Noticing his rising ire, she clarified, “No, I don’t mean _that_ , I just mean… I don’t know, I just realized that I don’t really notice your scars anymore.”

He shrugged, “Gotten used to them, that’s all, they haven’t gone anywhere.”

She tsked, “I _know_ they’re there, I see them, it’s just that they don’t look like scars anymore, they’re just… _you.”_

He shifted uncomfortably. This whole topic of conversation made him uneasy and slightly annoyed, but he was trying mightily not to snarl at the Queen who just asked him to be her sworn shield.

_Yes… get back to that topic._

“Right, well, speaking of my pretty face, you’re going to be seeing it more often now, so it’s good you’ve gotten used to it… Shall we make this official?”

“What?” she seemed genuinely confused.

“I believe I’m supposed to kneel and say vows…” he lapped at the air with his hand as if trying to jog her memory.

“That isn’t necessary, you don’t believe in vows.”

“Aye, but I’ll say them.” _…to you._

“ _I_ don’t believe in vows. I’ve said too many I did not mean or did not keep.”

_To who?_

She tapped the table in thought, “Though, it does seem ungrateful to deny you the opportunity to make _some_ sort of vow, given it’s probably the first time in your life you’ve been willing to do it… Ah! I’ve got it.” She stood and pulled her dagger out of her pocket – the one that was attached to a chain worn like a necklace around her neck.

“Little bird…?”

“A _Wildling_ vow: no fancy words, no kneeling; just two people making a silent blood promise to be true to the other, to protect the other, honor the other, tell the other when he or she is being an arse…”

He chuckled, “Fair enough, how does it work?”

“Simple,” she drew the tip of the dagger along the palm of her left hand, leaving behind an inch-long cut, “Now you.”

He made a similar cut on his own left palm, then shook her bloodied hand. “Now it’s official, you’re my sworn shield and you didn’t even have to _swear_.”

He smiled and wiped the dagger on his tunic before handing it back. It was only then that he noticed the carving in the handle: the Bolton sigil of the flayed man.

Sansa didn’t see his jaw drop as she dabbed her palm with a kerchief, “You may continue your present duties until after this wagon shipment, you can take your place at my side the next morning.”

“Aye,” was all he managed to say.

“Oh, I almost forgot to ask: do you plan to bring the dogs on this trip?”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it, but yes, I think I might.”

“Good, and if you happen to kill another Elk in the process, we could use the meat.”


	23. A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendly face arrives at Winterfell, though isn't so friendly toward Sandor.

**Sansa**

Three days later Sansa was just sitting down to the evening meal when the wagon guards entered the dining hall. As last time they were greeted by friendly cheers and pats on the back from their fellow men. Sansa remained at her table where she was dining with only Steward Sedgwell. She lifted her cup at the men, who responded in kind.

Sansa was surprised when, a few minutes later, Sandor’s tall frame could be seen entering the hall. He was obviously trying to enter unnoticed, but it didn’t work as his men shouted at him to join them. Sansa laughed to herself; she knew he hated attention of any kind, but _friendly_ attention was particularly painful for him. She desperately wanted to speak to him but didn’t want to steal him away from the other men. It pleased her to see he had friends, though she knew he would never use that term.

Only after seeing that he didn’t seem particularly involved in the conversation, she asked a servant to invite Sandor to sit with her. A moment later he bowed in front of her table, “My lady.”

“Please, sit with us, Sandor. I’m eager to hear how the shipment went.”

He looked hesitant but ultimately sat down in the empty chair to Sansa’s left.

“There was an attack about three hours outside of Castle Cerwyn. Six men, we gathered. They looked more prepared than the last group, but they were expecting swords, not hounds.”

She noticed a hint of pride in his voice.

“Cinder, he’s small but ferocious. Birdie, she’s the boss though… rare to see a female pack-leader but there’s no doubt about it. They chased off the men, but I called them back. Only Smoke took a bit of a scratch, but he’s a big boy, didn’t even feel it I imagine.”

Sansa smirked, “Cinder, Birdie, Smoke… you’ve named them?”

Sandor looked a bit embarrassed, “Aye, I couldn’t keep calling them Gray 1 and Gray 2…”

“So Cinder and Smoke are the two gray ones? I believe they were littermates.”

“Aye, seem to be.”

“Which one is Birdie?”

“She’s the sweet black one with the white spot on her chest.”

“Why do you call her Birdie?” Sansa cocked her head in genuine curiosity.

Sandor was about to answer but paused and looked at Sedgwell, “Long story…”

She took the hint, “Those are the only ones you took with you?”

He nodded, “And Shadow, the big one, solid black.”

“Have you named the others?”

“Aye, the gray one with blue eyes is Blue, the large tan one is Dayne…”

“After Arthur Dayne?”

“Aye. The smaller tan one is a female – she’s Whiskey. The smaller black one is Pepper – might be littermate to Shadow and Birdie, but he certainly doesn’t share their temperament. The black one with the white paws is Boots, and the big brindle is… well, Gregor.”

Sansa lifted her eyebrows, “You named one of our dogs after your brother?”

“Aye, cause he’s big and mean and I don’t trust him. Might have to put him down, then I can say I killed Gregor.”

“Hah!” Sansa laughed so loudly that half the room looked up at her. Sandor couldn’t contain his grin.

“Well I hope that’s not the case but honestly I’m still so thankful that we didn’t have to put down _all_ the poor beasts.”

Sandor nodded, “So what’s the news here? Any other queens on their way to pay us a visit?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Jon should be here in a sennight and several of my bannerman will arrive around the same time. Our _Dragon Queen_ should arrive shortly after. Which reminds me, did you bring another Elk back?”

He shook his head, “No, those lazy mutts, after they got to chew on some men’s legs they didn’t seem interested in hunting. Mayhap if there’s time I’ll take them out before your brother arrives.”

“Well done, Clegane.”

“It was nothing, my lady. I suppose tomorrow I’ll start as your shield?”

She shrugged, “Unless you’d prefer to take a day off.”

“No, I’ll get restless.”

“You’ll get restless standing behind me during court and following me around all day.”

“I’m used to that, remember? At least the back of your head is prettier than Joffrey’s.”

The steward looked up from his bowl, appalled, but when his lady didn’t seem bothered, he returned to his stew.

Sansa nodded, “If you insist, then come to my quarters at ten minutes to eleven. I suggest you eat beforehand; I do not tend to eat until the evening meal.”

“Eat like a bird?”

“Something like that.”

\------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor was right; among other benefits, standing and walking behind Sansa was much more pleasant than walking behind Joffrey. It didn’t take long for him to notice the amount of respect and love her people held for her. She was rarely warm but always fair and considerate. She knew most of her people by name, and even knew the names of the wives and children of her men and inquired about them often, which always made the men blush with obvious pride.

When new arrivals came seeking shelter and work Sansa would frequently make notes about the ones who appeared too thin or sickly. She’d privately tell the steward to give them extra rations or ask the maester to pay them a visit.

_This is the way Kings and Queens are supposed to act._ Sandor was proud of the little bird, but not just for the way she treated her people, but the way she expected to be treated herself. She didn’t expect servants to tend to her every need, unlike Cersei who had a servant to hold her skirts off the ground, a servant to pour her wine, a servant to braid her hair, a servant to mend her clothes… Sandor never saw maids enter or leave Sansa’s bedchamber. As far as he knew she bathed, dressed, braided her hair, and mended her own clothes. A few times he escorted her to nearby Winter Town to pick up fabric or deliver cloaks and blankets to new or expecting mothers. She never took credit, but Sandor was certain she knitted the garments herself – he recognized her neat stitches from their days in King’s Landing.

On his third day as her shield, Sansa gifted him a dark gray cloak with fur trim. A small direwolf was embroidered inside on the left. When clasped in the front, the direwolf lay directly against his heart, which made him feel like Sansa was touching him there. When he thanked her for the gift, she said it was only what was necessary for the cold northern winters. She hated receiving praise or flattery as much as he hated giving it, so no more was said.

Sansa’s brother Jon Snow arrived as expected, accompanied by Lord Umber of Last Hearth. Sandor did not remember Jon from the brief time he was in Winterfell with King Robert, but he immediately recognized the boy as a Stark. His hair and eyes were dark as night – even darker than Sandor’s. His skin was pale like Sansa’s. He was well-built but not nearly as tall as his father, Ned Stark. In fact, he was of a height with his sister, Sandor estimated just over five and a half feet. Lord Umber was weathered and gray, with thin white hair, deep set eyes, and high cheekbones. The man was tall and likely had been a fierce warrior in his time. He was not a warm man but greeted Sansa with the respect she deserved. He was a man of few words, as if, at his age, they wasted valuable energy. He eyed Sandor curiously but said nothing. Weary from the journey, he and his men were promptly escorted to their guest chambers.

Jon greeted his sister with a smile, though there was little affection between the two, as far as Sandor could see. After Umber and his men were led away, Jon stood alone with Sansa and Sandor, eyes darting between the two until eventually settling on Sandor. Sandor was rarely intimidated by another man – particularly a man an entire foot shorter than him, but the intensity in the young man’s eyes made him want to turn away. He held his stare though – he knew this dance.

Sansa eventually rolled her eyes, “Staring won’t make him disappear, Jon. Whatever you want to say, say it.”

Jon did not remove his eyes from Sandor, “Why?”

“Why what?” the jest succeeded in drawing Jon’s attention back to his sister.

She shrugged, “I thought I’d save you the trouble of having to deal with him. He was headed for the wall with Ser Beric and Thoros. Did they not tell you?”

“No, probably because if I knew they were associates of the Hound I’d have turned them away.”

“Well, they were, or _are_. Sandor is my sworn shield now, and yes, I trust him. I trusted him in the Red Keep, and I trust him now, and he’s never given me cause to feel differently.”

“He served the Lannisters! He was Kingsguard to Joffrey Baratheon who killed our father and tormented and beat you for over a year!”

“Indeed.”

“He’s a turn cloak who betrayed the House he served his entire life.”

“Correct.”

“Do you not think he will do the same to you?”

“I do not.”

Jon looked indignant, “You know, Sansa, it was one thing when you arrived at our gates with the Kingslayer – you were weak and owned nothing but your name, there was no benefit to Ser Jaime helping you then. But you’re the Queen in the North now, does it not occur to you the Hound is only serving you because it’s convenient for him? And as soon as it’s _not_ convenient he’ll find some other master.”

Sansa gestured at Sandor, “Ask him yourself. As many questions as you like to ease your mind. But know I’m only allowing you this courtesy because you are my brother. If any other man dared to question my judgment in who I choose to shield _my_ back, you’d have a new member of the Watch.”

Jon eyed her a moment before turning back to Sandor. “Why did you leave King’s Landing?”

“Because it was on fire.”

“My sister says she trusted you in King’s Landing. Why?”

“Because she’s too trusting, though I supposed _she’d_ say it’s because, unlike all those other greasy cunts, I never laid a hand on her. Apparently, that’s all it takes to be a bloody hero nowadays, that’s how fucked up the world has become.”

“Who did you serve after you left King’s Landing?”

“No one. Well, technically I served the Seven, or men that serve the Seven. Never cared much for religion, myself.”

“Why did you choose to come to Winterfell?”

“I didn’t. I was headed to the Wall as your sister told you. Her men found us and assumed we were bandits or rapers or who-the-fuck-knows. Brought us here in chains.”

“So then why are you _still_ here?”

“Because it’s nicer here than the at the Wall, I imagine. And Lady Sansa offered us the option to stay.”

“Yet your companions Ser Beric and Thoros continued on. Why did you not join them on their mission?”

“Because it was _their_ mission. I only went a long because I had nothing better to do, and three is safer than one,” he shrugged.

“Then why did you swear yourself to my sister?”

“Because she asked.”

“Why did you agree?”

Sandor sighed, “Because it’s what I’m good at. Being a sword and a shield. Your sister, Lady Sansa, she deserves to be protected. Dealt with enough fuckery in her life.”

Jon narrowed his eyes suspiciously, “Surely there are other ways for a warrior of your status to gain employment. Braavos is warm and sellswords there make good coin. All you get here is food and a bed.”

“Aye, you make a good point.”

“So…?”

Sandor sighed again but was getting riled, “I suppose… _fuck_ , does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. I suppose I got tired of serving Lords and Ladies who weren’t worth the shite on the bottom of my boots.”

Jon laughed, “So you, the _Hound_ , the man whose worth is measured by the amount of blood he spills, decided one day to serve a _just_ cause.”

“Is that so fucking impossible to believe? Seven Hells, boy, your sister says the dead are marching for the Wall, the Targaryen bitch is flying in on her dragons, and the thing that surprises you most is a man finding his conscience?”

Sansa smirked, and before Jon could reply Sandor spoke, “No more fucking questions, if your sister doesn’t want me here she can tell me to go, I needn’t explain myself to you… For fuck’s sake, you question the _brothers_ of the Night’s Watch this much? Those thieves and rapers and murderers?”

Jon looked irate, “No, but they’re not guarding my little sister!”

“Well like I said, take that up with your sister. I’m just the dog, I do what I’m told.”

Finally Sansa spoke, “Jon, I’d be happy to answer any other questions you have in private, after supper. For now I have much to attend to, and I’m sure you want to rest.”

Jon nodded, and though he still looked wary, his suspicion of Sandor had clearly lessened.

\--------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa, Jon, and Lord Umber dined at the High Table that evening but spoke only of the progress at Winterfell. They agreed to hold all conversation about the Night King’s army and Daenerys Targaryen until the other bannermen had arrived. Sansa told both men how Sandor, his men, and his hounds had successfully thwarted two wagon attacks. They seemed impressed but did not express any praise to Sandor, not that he would have wanted or expected it.

Sansa dismissed Sandor after the meal, saying that her brother would escort her to her private solar where they would spend some more time together.

Upon arriving, Sansa poured them each a glass of wine which Jon took gladly, “Ahh, the worst thing about the Wall – no wine. Nothing better to warm a man’s blood. I’d trade a barrel of ale for one wineskin on a cold night.”

“Which is every night,” Sansa chuckled.

“To you maybe. Live there a few years and you start realizing there are a hundred different kinds of cold. Bone-chilling, wind-whipping, can’t-piss-outside-or… well, the rest isn’t suitable for a lady to hear,” he blushed.

Sansa laughed again, “I can imagine how it goes.”

A few seconds of silence passed before Sansa asked the question hanging in the air between them, “How bad, Jon?”

He stared into his goblet, “Bad, Sansa. A few months. There’ve been some… developments… but truly, I need to not talk about it tonight… need to not think about it. We’ll talk when the bannerman and Daenerys arrive. Tell me,” he took her hands in his, “How are you?”

“We’re doing well, as you see. No shortage of men and women looking for work after the war, which is good because we need all the help we can get…”

“I meant how are _you_ doing?”

Sansa shifted, “I’m fine, Jon.”

His quiet stare told her that wasn’t enough, she had to give him more. She sighed, “It’s… difficult. But I’m managing.” It still wasn’t enough. “I… it doesn’t feel like home, not really. When I first came back to Winterfell, I thought I was coming home. When it didn’t feel like home, I thought it was just because of him, because of the Boltons. But after the battle it still didn’t feel like home. It wasn’t the stone walls and courtyards that made this my home, it was the people, and they’re all gone.”

Jon nodded, “I know Sansa, I miss them, too. It feels like I’ll never be whole again without them.”

Sansa smiled, “If four years ago you had told me I would someday miss Arya’s constant questions or roguish pranks I’d have called you crazy, but now… if she walked in here right now and put a snowball down my dress it would be the greatest feeling in the world.”

Jon smiled, “Aye, if any of us could survive out there on our own, it is her. She could still be out there… and Bran and Rickon. We know they left with Hodor and that Wildling woman, and they had their wolves… not many people would attack a giant and two direwolves.”

“I know, but there are other ways to die out there, Jon.”

“Indeed, but the Wildlings are resourceful. They know how to hunt, how to scavenge, how to find shelter. You know this.”

Sansa nodded, “I know, I haven’t given up. I had hope, when we first retook Winterfell. Each day I expected to see one or more of them walk up to the gates asking for their big sister. But it’s been months, Jon… by now they’d have heard—"

He cut her off, “We don’t know that, and even if they have heard, their travel back could take time.”

Sansa nodded again, “I haven’t given up, I just… well, I can’t let myself hold much hope. I can’t be disappointed again, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle that, after everything…”

Jon leaned over and kissed his sister’s forehead, a rare expression of affection between the two siblings, “It’s alright, you have enough to worry about, we all do.”

“Jon, there is something else. When I told you that Brienne had spotted Arya alive and well nearly two years before I escaped the Boltons… I left out some detail.”

Jon looked at her quizzically.

“Arya wasn’t alone, she was with Sandor… the Hound.”

“He kidnapped her?!” anger built in Jon’s voice.

“No, it did not appear so. She was unharmed, she had her sword, Needle, on her hip. He wasn’t holding her, didn’t have her bound. He and Brienne fought when Brienne said she was there to bring Arya to safety. Sandor saw she bore Lannister steel and he didn’t believe her. I’ve asked Sandor. He is in too much denial over any of his virtues, but he admitted he never harmed Arya, that he was going out of his way to ransom her back to _family_ – people that would care for her. He could have have easily brought her to Tywin or Cersei, the Freys… but he didn’t.”

“And this is why you trust him?”

“It doesn’t hurt, but no… I’ve always trusted him.”

“How can you though, Sansa? Look, I understand you’ve seen your share of evil men. Just because he’s no Ramsay doesn’t mean he’s some honorable knight.”

“That’s just it, Jon. He’d never call himself honorable, or a knight, but he is the closest thing to either that I’ve ever met, save perhaps Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Rodrik… and _you_.”

Jon shook his head, but she continued, “He protected me from Joffrey and the Kingsguard as well as he could—”

“You told me they beat you at least weekly!”

“They did, Jon. He stopped it once, anything more would have cost him his head. But the beatings would have been even more frequent if he didn’t help me in other ways… he taught me to lie to Joffrey, to give him what he wanted, to play dumb… it kept the worst of Joffrey’s wrath at bay.”

“That’s hardly cause to trust him with your life, Sansa.”

“He also saved me from rapers during the riots. He wasn’t ordered to, but he did, risking his own safety. And, well… I’ve never told anyone this, but when he fled the Red Keep he offered to take me home, to Winterfell. Only I was too much of a coward to accept his help.”

“Sansa, if everything you say is true than I believe he won’t hurt you. But that doesn’t mean his motives are honorable or pure. He is a _man_ , Sansa. And you… well, you are a beautiful woman. Everything you say, him risking his life for you on multiple occasions, him offering to take you away… do you think he’d have done the same if you were plain, or a boy?”

“I don’t doubt he has some attraction to me, but he has never acted improperly. If I turn away the service of every man who finds me pretty then we will have no guards, no laborers, no soldiers…”

Jon shook his head, but his tone indicated submission, “I understand, Sansa. You are smart enough to make your own decisions on such matters. I just ask that you keep your guard up.”

Sansa felt her nostrils flare and her face redden with anger, but she fought to keep her voice calm, “Jon, I haven’t let my guard down since father was killed, though it did me little good. I’ve been living like wounded prey, constantly watching for the predator to pounce. The _smartest_ thing I can do is surround myself with people who will protect me when I cannot protect myself: Brienne, Theon, Jaime, Poole, Sandor…”

Jon smiled. He would say no more. He gave his sister another kiss, this one on the cheek, and bid her goodnight.


	24. Northern Lords and Ladies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More visitors arrive

**Sandor**

The next two days saw several of Sansa’s vassal lords and ladies arrive – all those who were less than a fortnight from Winterfell by horse. Most arrived with a guard detail and, thankfully, many brought carts or wagons filled with food, wine, or ale to contribute to Winterfell. Sansa had not asked for this, but her vassals’ lands fared better during the years of war than Winterfell, and they knew it. She stood at the gates of Winterfell and greeted each lord and lady graciously. Sandor noticed she wore a gray woolen dress and cloak rather than her typical black leather breeches and dress. The dress was heavy and modest, but it was the closest he had seen to the little bird he knew in King’s Landing, and he couldn’t help but feel a stirring at seeing her auburn hair contrasted against the dove gray fabric.

Sandor stood behind Sansa as she greeted each visitor. Jonelle Cerwyn and Eddara Tallhart arrived first, followed by Alys Karstark, Galbart Glover, Alysane and Lyanna Mormont, and finally Wyman Manderly. Glover, Manderly, and the Mormont sisters were the ones who appeared to be most fond of their young queen, though all seemed genuinely respectful of Sansa.

Sandor soon learned that Glover, Umber, and Mormont were the Houses that lent their forces to help Sansa retake Winterfell from the Boltons. They held Deepwood Motte, Last Hearth, and Bear Island, respectively. Sandor was immediately impressed with Glover, but the Mormont sisters were particularly entertaining. They were tough and outspoken, particularly the younger one, Lyanna. She reminded him of Arya and Sandor felt a pang of sadness wondering what happened to the little she-wolf. He liked to think she was across the Narrow Sea, staying alive by stealing from fat, unsuspecting merchants. In all reality though, she was most likely dead.

Sandor shook away the thought as he watched over his lady. She maintained her icy demeanor, but her words were more embellished than normal, as she easily slipped into the role of host and lady of the castle. All the guests who were expected had arrived by midday, and all chose to retire to the guest quarters to rest ahead of the feast that had been planned for that evening.

It was only when Sansa turned to address Sandor, after all her guests had been escorted away, that he noticed how tired and frail she looked. Shadows rested below her eyes. Her lips looked dry, and her cheekbones and jaw seemed even more pronounced than usual.

_She’s not sleeping or eating well._ Sandor felt the urge to pick her up and carry her to her chambers. He wanted to not leave her side until she ate her fill, then hold her in his strong arms until she fell asleep. He didn’t know where these protective desires came from, but he had stopped questioning them long ago.

“I will retire to my private solar, there are many tasks needing my attention, spend your free time as you see fit. Please be at my chambers at six o’clock to escort me to the feast.” He bowed and watched her walk into the family keep before heading toward the training yard.

\----------------------------------------------------------

Sandor stood outside Sansa’s chambers donned in his most presentable breeches and tunic, light leather armor, and the cloak Sansa had recently gifted him. It had been some time since he’d stood as Joffrey’s shield during such occasions, and he felt oddly out of practice. He knocked on Sansa’s door to announce his presence and waited only a minute before she appeared.

The vision before him left him speechless. Sansa stepped into the hallway wearing a dark green velvet dress with a light gray underlayment running in a wide stripe up the middle of the dress. The bodice tied in the front and the neckline revealed a modest hint of the milky white skin at her collarbones. The long bell sleeves extended beyond her hands and had a wide strip of fur trim at the end. Her rich auburn hair fell in loose waves down her back with two thin braids wrapped around her head where less humble queens would wear a gold crown.

Realizing he’d been staring at her he finally extended his right arm. She eyed him curiously before placing her delicate hand in the crook of his elbow. As she walked beside him the scent of sweet almond and lavender permeated his nostrils. His brain fought a silent battle with his cock, which the latter was decidedly winning. He thanked the northern cold which had him wearing such a heavy and billowy cloak; anything lighter would have exposed his want to an entire hall full of castle residents and guests.

It was not the first time since his arrival that Sandor was favorably impressed with the Northerners. Where King’s Landing affairs were filled with false courtesies and empty compliments, Northern feasts were marked by genuine shared interests and jovial conversations. Ale flowed freely yet tempers never rose; perhaps the Northerners had seen enough of war and death to ever intentionally provoke one another over trivial matters. That is not to say everyone was well-mannered – in fact Sandor heard many bawdy comments and teasing, but everything was said in jest, with a clear undercurrent of respect. Sansa herself was polite as always.

Despite the occasional distraction due to some raucous shouts coming from a lower table, Sandor found it hard to peel his eyes off the little bird. He was glad she was his charge, or else his stares would have undoubtedly garnered some scrutiny from the many ladies at Sansa’s table. 

His reverie was broken when Lady Lyanna Mormont approached Sandor where he stood behind Sansa. “So you’re the Hound?”

“I was.”

“Then what are you now?”

He shrugged, “Just Sandor Clegane, or whatever my lady needs me to be.”

“I hear you can best any man living with a sword, is that true?”

He shrugged again, “I haven’t fought every living man yet, I’ll let you know after I have.”

Instead of being put off by his rudeness, she laughed at his words and smacked his arm with surprising force, “You certainly don’t disappoint, Sandor Clegane! I hope I get the chance to see you fight.”

Sansa had turned slightly at the sound of the laughter, and Sandor thought he saw the corner of her mouth curve up, just slightly.

Having little else to do, and open to a distraction from his blatant staring, Sandor found himself continuing the conversation, “You’re the she-bear, aren’t you?”

“One of many proud ladies of Bear Island, yes. Our late mother, Maege Mormont, died alongside the King in the North. My sister Alysane over there,” Lyanna nodded in the direction of a stocky, dark-haired girl, “she’s the true she-bear now. I’d put her against any woman, and most men... maybe even you.”

“Then I’ll be sure to mind my manners.”

Lyanna flipped her hand away dismissively, “Where’s the fun in that? Alysane would sooner cut you down for being drab than for being rude.”

Sandor shrugged, “Right, then I’ll just be myself.”

Lyanna gave a hearty laugh again before leaving to join Lord Glover in conversation.

The evening was surprisingly pleasant, though Sandor was merely a spectator for most of it. He was feeling as close to content as he ever did until he looked down and noticed that Sansa had barely eaten her meal. After the other ladies retired, leaving only drunken men and lords in the hall, Sansa asked Sandor to escort her to her chambers. Once alone, he decided to voice his concern but didn’t think it proper to comment directly on her thin figure, instead he casually asked, “Are you unwell, my lady?”

She looked at him, confused, so he elaborated, “You did not eat much supper… or perhaps it was not to your liking? Shall I ask the kitchens to send something else?”

“Oh, no, that isn’t necessary, but thank you. I never have much of an appetite.”

Sandor couldn’t contain his snort, “Says the lady I saw finish off a dozen lemon cakes with Margaery Tyrell.”

Sansa smiled weakly, “Yes, well, my appetite was one of the few things Joffrey did _not_ punish me for.. _._ such was not the case with my late husband. You needn’t worry about the waste, the kitchen staff will enjoy it or put it in a sack for the hounds.”

Sandor was stunned for a moment. He’d never known Sansa to be anything but slender; he couldn’t imagine any husband complaining about her appetite or her figure. Eventually he spoke, “I wasn’t worried about the waste.” _I was worried about you…_

She looked at him a moment, but they had arrived at her door. She bid him good evening and disappeared from view. Sandor retired to his own quarters down the hall. Earlier, while watching Sansa, he was sure he would end the night by taking himself in hand, but as he peeled off his cloak and armor, the only thing he fantasized about holding was the hilt of his sword as he drove it through Ramsay Bolton’s stomach.


	25. A Meeting of Queens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alliance talks

**Sandor**

Two days after the feast, the Dragon Queen’s arrival was marked by the ominous screeches of three giant, winged beasts that cast shadows the size of tourney grounds over the fields of Winterfell. Jon and Sansa stood soberly just outside the South Gate. Sandor stood behind and to Sansa’s right, alongside Theon, and was glad she could not see his panic-stricken face at the thought that literal fire-breathing monsters were about to land nearby. The other lords and ladies waited inside the Great Hall. _Lucky bastards._

The three dragons landed about fifty yards from where Sansa’s group stood, their flapping wings blowing back strands of hair and blades of grass alike. A tall man stepped off first, then helped down two young women who appeared as opposite as night and day: the first a slender girl with short black ringlets and dark skin, the second a short, fair-skinned woman with long silver-white hair. The two groups approached each other, and the tall man – an older knight with thinning blond hair and leathered skin – introduced the shorter woman as “Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.” Daenerys made no effort to interrupt him, seemingly basking in the sound of her lofty title.

Daenerys allowed her hosts a few minutes to stare in silent awe of the beasts before them.

Eventually, Jon muttered his own brief title, “Your grace, I am Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.” He bowed then took his sister’s hand, drawing her forward, “and this is my sister, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Queen of the Northern Kingdom.” Sansa curtsied deeply while Daenerys made a slight dip of her head.

_Should be the other way around._

“It is a pleasure to officially meet you, Lord Snow. I am glad to finally put a face to the name.”

_Ah yes, the bastard’s been exchanging letters with the_ Dragon Queen _._

“…and you, Lady Sansa, I’ve been anxious to meet a woman so brave and wise, as your brother described you, though I admit his descriptions of your beauty were terribly inadequate.”

“I can only echo your words, your grace.”

The slight did not go unnoticed by Sandor: Daenerys called her ‘Lady Sansa’, not ‘your grace’, or even ‘Lady Stark’. It was meant to assert her dominance, and the little bird allowed it… for now.

Daenerys introduced her companions: Ser Jorah Mormont, her sworn shield (and, as Jon pointed out, the son of the late Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jeor Mormont) and Missandei of Naath, Daenerys’ most trusted advisor and translator, not that the latter skill would be needed here.

Sansa introduced Theon and Sandor, though didn’t indicate either’s relationship to her. Upon hearing the name ‘Clegane’, Daenerys’ smile dropped. “Of any relation to the late Ser Gregor Clegane?”

“Unfortunately,” Sandor grumbled.

To Sandor’s pleasure, neither Sansa or Jon spoke to defend him, and simply awaited the Dragon Queen’s next words. She seemed to consider a few options before deciding on the most diplomatic one, “Well, Ser Clegane…”

_Not a Ser._

“…I know better than most that relations between siblings can be… complicated. I’ll assume the fact that Lady Sansa has you in her service means you share none of your elder brother’s character.”

_I wouldn’t say ‘none’…_ “You assume correct, my lady.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but it appeared that the corner of Sansa’s mouth rose just slightly at hearing the term Sandor chose to address Daenerys, while Jon’s dropped with equal subtlety.

“Your grace,” Sansa interjected, “I’ve no experience with your method of travel, but I must imagine you are tired from your journey…” Sansa offered Daenerys the opportunity to rest until the next day when their talks could begin, but the silver-haired Queen seemed eager to proceed with the intended purpose of her visit. She instead opted for a brief rest and meal in her guest chambers, and the group agreed to meet again that afternoon in the Great Hall.

\------------------------------------------------

The rest of the morning went quickly, as Sandor took advantage of his free time to get in a few rounds of sparring then a hot bath. _Best be presentable, not every day I stand in a room with_ two _queens…_

When Sandor followed Sansa into the hall after lunch, she took her seat at the high table, which had been moved into the center of the room for today’s discussions. Sandor stood next to Theon along the front wall of the room, though didn’t like being so far from the little bird. He took an account of the people around the room. He knew most of their names after committing them to memory the day before – a habit from his days in the Kingsguard that he would likely never lose. At the lower tables lined along the left and right sides of the room sat several lords and ladies of the north: Alysane and Lyanna Mormont, Hother Umber, Alys Karstark, Galbart Glover, Jonelle Cerwyn, Eddara Tallhart, Wyman Manderly, and Howland Reed.

Daenerys was escorted in by Jon Snow, with Jorah and Missandei following closely. Jon sat Daenerys across from Sansa, then hesitated a moment before taking the chair next to his sister, leaving Missandei to sit beside her queen. Jorah nodded to Sandor and Theon before standing beside them.

After taking a few sips of wine, Sansa spoke first, “Your grace, I apologize to surround you with so many unknown faces, and hope you do not feel outnumbered… As Jon may have told you, the North is something of a democracy, and I intend to make any major decisions that affect the entire kingdom only with the consent of my loyal vassals. Even more, the details of the threat beyond the Wall are known to varying degrees by some but not all of those present. I feel it is important they gain a complete understanding of our enemy sooner rather than later.”

Daenerys smiled in response, “Of course, my lady, and while I am in fact _outnumbered_ , I hardly feel _threatened_ as I think is your real concern – there are few things that make me feel vulnerable since my children reached their full size. Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern for my comfort.”

Sansa bowed her head slightly, “Perhaps the logical starting point would be for Jon to give his full account of the threat we have gathered here to discuss, including any of all knowledge of how to defeat said threat.”

“I agree, Lady Sansa. I believe you and I know the full details, but it is better to be _certain_ that we are all in possession of the same facts.”

“Right,” Jon sighed, “Where should I begin…”

Over the next hour Jon described at length the “threat” the Queens were referring to. At multiple points Sandor thought his head would spin off his neck, but he stood and listened carefully.

The men of the Night’s Watch had reason to believe that, for the first time in millennia, the Wall was vulnerable due to the approach of a massive army of the dead. This army of walking corpses – or ‘wights’ – was led by a small number of more powerful beings they call ‘White Walkers’. The leader of the White Walkers was the infamous ‘Night King’ of lore. The Night’s Watch estimated the army to be over 100,000 strong and presently marching toward the Wall, albeit very slowly due to the deep snows, partially frozen rivers, and mountainous terrain of the far north. The army included at least two wight-Giants. Wights could be killed by fire, dragonglass, or Valyrian steel. White Walkers could only be killed by dragonglass or Valyrian steel and were impervious to fire. They were skilled warriors in their own right, wielding deadly sharp weapons.

Jon had begun a communication with Daenerys over a year prior to this meeting, after his pleas to the crown went unanswered. He believed with her armies and her dragons, in addition to the Northern armies and the men of the Night’s Watch, they would stand a good chance of defeating the army of the dead for good. The key, he said, was to kill the White Walkers, including the Night King himself. Upon doing so, all the wights would perish into dust. With the Night King dead, the threat should never rise again.

Understandably, a flurry of questions interrupted Jon throughout his speech. At one point, after some of the lords expressed disbelief, Sansa and the three lords and ladies who had been to the Wall, vouched for the existence of these creatures, describing the walking skeleton that was kept in a thick wooden crate at Castle Black. Several gasps echoed through the hall.

But Jon had one more story to share, something even Sansa and Daenerys had not yet been told: “Just over a moon ago, Tor- Lord Tormund and I led a party of Rangers by boat northward along the eastern coast. Our goal was to find and bring back any surviving Free Folk before they could become more soldiers in the army of the dead. Our mission was only partly successful. We found a large camp of over nine hundred Free Folk several miles north of Hardhome. It took little persuasion for them to agree to sail south with us, but our boats could only accommodate one hundred and fifty at a time. The first group, mostly mothers and children, were sailed back to Eastwatch as Tormund, myself, and a few other of my men stayed at the camp. Eventually the second group departed. But just as we spotted the boats returning, we began to hear screams from the far side of the camp... The dead had arrived.”

As if mirror images of one another, Sansa and Daenerys simultaneously lifted their hands to their mouths, stunned.

Jon’s eyes looked distant as he continued the frightening tale, “We fought them off as well as we could as the boats came to shore. The strongest of us formed a human shield wall, trying to buy time for the others to board the boats that had by now reached us… we fought savagely, each killing dozens of the wights, but they just kept raining down on us!” Jon was now panting, as he relived the terrifying ordeal, “When one of us fell it was like watching ants swarm a moth carcass. It was relentless.”

“At some point I noticed two of the White Walkers approaching us. The rest stayed in the distance, atop a hill. The two who approached seemed to single Tormund and I out. They attacked us with a ferocity I’ve rarely seen in any living man. We fought them for what felt like an eternity, but somehow, I killed one. I couldn’t even tell you what the death strike was, I only know he shattered into a million pieces of _ice_ , and at the same moment hundreds of the wights disappeared into clouds of dust…”

Jon turned to face Jorah, “Ser Jorah, your father gifted me Longclaw before his death. The sword is yours by rights, and I intend to return it to you, but I thought you should know that his sword – your _family’s_ sword – did something few swords have ever done.”

Daenerys beamed at Ser Jorah, but the man looked only humbled, “Lord Commander, it pleases me to hear that, but credit belongs to the man who wields it, not the sword itself. My father wanted you to have it, it would honor me if you’d keep it.”

Jon nodded, then took a deep breath and continued, “Those few of us who survived to this point were forced back into the frigid water, and apparently wights can’t swim because they did not pursue us. We boarded the over-crowded boats and sailed back to Eastwatch.”

Sansa gently took Jon’s hand in her own, “Gods, Jon, I’m so sorry.”

He gave his sister a weak smile before concluding his story, “Over nine hundred living, breathing souls were at that camp, but only four hundred and eighty-eight made it to Eastwatch. The rest perished in a matter of minutes. _That’s_ what the Night King is capable of, and that’s why the only thing I care about is stopping him…”

“By my estimates, at the pace they’re traveling, they will reach Castle Black – assuming that is their destination – within three moons, four at best.”

A cacophony of exclamations and murmurs filled the large room, and Jon firmly defended his calculations and logic, eventually silencing the questions and doubts. Jon’s news was heavy, so Sansa suggested they take a brief recess to mull over his words.

\-------------------------------------------------

When they all reentered the hall an hour later, servants had laid out a light meal of salted meats, cheeses, roasted vegetables and brown bread with butter. They nibbled at the food, though no one had much of an appetite.

This time, Daenerys was first to speak, “Thank you, Lord Commander, for educating us all on this historic threat. I do not doubt the truth of your words, or the soundness of your assumptions, however I remain unconvinced that the Wall will be breached.”

A few of the lords and ladies nodded in agreement, trying to convince themselves more than anything.

She continued, “From what I know of the Wall, and I don’t mean to challenge your superior knowledge in that domain, but it has _never_ fallen, and has very _rarely_ been breached… Those who _have_ breached it were Wildlings, bearing an intellect, not to mention tools and instruments, that this army of the dead does not seem to possess.”

Jon seemed ready for this objection, “Your grace is correct, the Wall has stood strong since our Stark ancestors built it thousands of years ago. Its gates have withstood countless attacks in that time. However, there is no record of an attack by a force of this magnitude – not even a _fraction_ of this magnitude. With 100,000 wights, the Night King can unleash a steady torrent of force on the main gates that could literally go on for years. As for their intellect, your grace, the wights may be mindless corpses, but the Night King and his _generals,_ as we call them, are, by all indications, intelligent. They ride horses, they wield longswords, they even appear to employ military tactics…”

“Moreover, even if there is a good chance that the Wall and its gates _will_ hold, we would be gambling with the fate not just of the North, but of the entire continent. An army of this size, this resiliency, can tear through kingdoms, adding to their numbers with every man, woman, and child they kill.”

Daenerys pondered his words and appeared to be convinced as she began discussing his plan, and her potential involvement, “So you propose, Lord Commander, that we join our armies and meet this army of the dead _north_ of the Wall?”

“I know how reckless it sounds, your grace, but yes, I believe that is our best chance. I am given to understand you have an army of a hundred thousand men, and of course three dragons. The North adds roughly another thirty thousand soldiers. It would be an easy victory…”

“An easy victory if I had the means or inclination to transport my army to the Wall.”

“Yes, I understand that is a challenge, but I imagine with your dragons only _half_ of your army would be sufficient to assure us a victory. Our fleet is small, but we can lend some boats—"

“So I contribute 50,000 prime soldiers, incur the cost of transporting them to the North and clothing them and their horses for the Winter, _and_ lend my three dragons, while the North contributes 30,000 men and boys, weary from your recent war against the Crown. That is your proposition?”

Jon and Sansa exchanged confused glances, before Jon responded, “Forgive me, your grace, I was under the impression we were meeting today as allies to plan for the impending battle against our common enemy. You seem to be treating this as a negotiation.”

“That is not my intent, Lord Commander, I do wish to call the North my ally, but I am a practical woman. I have worked too hard and for too long to risk so much of what I’ve acquired, to gain nothing in return.”

Sansa’s face was reddened, but she spoke calmly, “Your grace, you say you’ll get nothing in return, but it seems to me the preservation of the very lands and people you seek to rule is a more than ‘nothing’.”

“You mean the lands and people _you_ rule.”

“As my brother just said, this threat is a threat to the entire continent, not just the North.”

“Perhaps, or perhaps not. It may be the army of the dead will breach the Wall and be defeated by your Northern forces… after all, your people have proven rather… _resilient._ Or, they may not breach the Wall at all, in which case any of my men – _or yours_ – who perish in a preemptive attack would have died needlessly.”

Sansa shifted in her seat but retained her cool tone, “If you’re unwilling to fight with us, then I dare say you traveled rather far for sightseeing.”

_Good for you, little bird._

Daenerys did not look amused, “Lady Sansa, I did not say I’m _unwilling_ ; however my priority is to retake the Iron Throne, which is mine by birthright, and I will need _all_ of my armies _and_ my dragons to do so. It seems you are asking me to make quite a sacrifice, and not telling me what _you_ are willing to sacrifice in return.”

Sensing the rising tension, Jon attempted to get the dialogue back on course, “You seem to have something in mind, your grace…”

“As a matter of fact I do. You ask for my armies and my dragons. I am willing to lend the latter, but the cost and risk of lending the former is too great. Let me save all of us some time and energy, and take _that_ off the table…”

Jon and Sansa exchanged worried glances, but allowed the Dragon Queen to continue, “So the _price_ of my support, for the use of my three dragons, is this: you bend the knee, you swear the North’s allegiance to House Targaryen in perpetuity; to seal the alliance you, Lady Sansa, marry a lord of my choosing, and when the time comes for me to face the Lannisters and their allies, you fight by my side.”

_Don’t say yes, little bird, tell her to fuck off!_

Several of the bannermen rumbled, but none spoke. Sansa shook her head but remained silent, no doubt formulating a dozen reasons to oppose the Dragon Queen’s request, but it was Jon who eventually spoke, “Your grace, pardon my ignorance, but I’ve never seen dragons in action. Are you confident that your dragons, along with our Northern forces, would be enough to defeat an army 100,000-strong?”

Sansa stared at her brother but said nothing. Daenerys answered his question, “Each of my dragons can scorch acres of earth in mere minutes. Dragons are not entirely invulnerable, but assuming your Night King hasn’t anticipated their attack and built weapons capable of piercing their scales, then my dragons might as well be invincible. Combined with your ground attack I can’t imagine how we would lose.”

Sansa finally broke her silence, “ _You_ may not lose, but we will lose much! We will lose many of our men, and those that survive will then be thrown into _your_ war against the Lannisters!”

“But your beloved North will survive, you _will_ recover, just as you are recovering now from the Five Kings War.”

“Yes, and we’ll be giving up our independence, which is what we fought for to begin with!”

“What your people _fought_ for, Lady Sansa, was vengeance. Vengeance against the King who unjustly condemned _your_ family to death.”

“Indeed, a _mad king_ , much like _your_ father who also _unjustly_ killed Stark men because they would not be party to his endless cruelty.”

Several of the bannermen voiced their agreement: “Here, here!”

Sansa had clearly struck a nerve, as now Daenerys turned her own shade of crimson, “My father was not _mad_ , and even if he were, you will not be bending the knee to my father, you will be bending the knee to _me._ ”

“A woman who shares his blood, a woman we’ve only just met, who may be just as mad as her father, or worse!”

Daenerys stood, and Sansa rose in response, towering over the petite dragon queen.

_I’ll put my coin on the little bird._

Jon spoke up, trying desperately to cool the tempers of the two women he seemed torn between, “This is accomplishing _nothing._ Regardless of who sits on the throne, or who rules the North, the survival of _mankind_ must be our utmost priority!”

“It _is_ my priority, Jon, but I am not willing to swear every Northern life to her cause when she is unwilling to spare even _one_ soldier to our _combined_ cause.”

“My three dragons are worth more than your 30,000 soldiers. They’re worth more than every life in the North!” Daenerys immediately realized her mistake as several of the bannermen gasped, but Sansa gestured for them to remain silent, and they obliged.

Daenerys attempted to backtrack, “You would hardly lose your _rule_ of the North. I would name you Wardeness of the North…”

“A title that will be all but worthless after you marry me off to one of _your_ lords.”

“I would make it clear to your lord husband that you would be _equals_. You would not be some voiceless lady, you have my word.”

“Your _word_?” Sansa let out a bemused laugh. “Even if I were willing to cede the North and put the lives of my people on the line to help you take the crown… even if I were willing to do that, I promised myself I would never be _forced_ into another marriage of someone else’s choosing.”

“So you wish to choose your husband?”

“Amongst the selection of Southern or Western lords who’ve learned to despise my very name? What kind of choice would that be?”

Now it was Daenerys who laughed, “The insolence! You demand to make the _choice_? I’d be hard-pressed to find a suitable lord _willing_ to marry the _Queen in the North…_ Do you realize what they think of you – what they _call_ you in the South, and in Essos?”

“I’m sure they call me many things, and I could not be less interested in their opinions.”

Daenerys ignored Sansa’s retort, “They call you the ‘Widow Wolf’…” Sansa rolled her eyes. “…Your penchant for murdering your husbands and lovers is known throughout the realm. You poisoned Joffrey Baratheon at his wedding; your first husband, Tyrion Lannister, has not been seen since that day, and is presumed dead _by your hand_. Your second husband Harrold Hardyng lasted, what, a few months into your marriage?”

_Harrold what? Who the fuck…?_

“Pray tell, Lady Sansa, how _did_ you kill Lords Tyrion and Harrold?”

Sansa didn’t meet her eyes, and didn’t speak, but the rage was pulsating off of her body.

“Of course, we all know how you killed your third husband, Ramsay Bolton, stabbed him to death in your marriage bed… and yet you think you should get your _pick_ of the Southern lords? I’ll be lucky to find one willing to wed you, they’re all _afraid_ of you!”

Sansa raised her eyes, but the heat in her a moment ago had frozen over into a gaze so cold that Daenerys visibly shuddered. Sansa leaned closer, her lips a snarl, “As they should be… As _you_ should be.” She stood to leave but paused, “And I didn’t stab Ramsay Bolton to death, I bit his throat out of his neck… the stabbing was just for the satisfaction.” In a swirl of black skirt she turned and walked out the door, leaving a stunned Daenerys staring wide-eyed at her back.

The room was silent enough to hear a pin drop, but it didn’t last. Daenerys directed her rage at Jon, “How dare she! Your sister is unwise to threaten the Dragon!”

Hother Umber rose, with a glimmer of pride in his old eyes, “When you try to corner a wolf, _your grace_ , you had better expect to hear a snarl.”

Daenerys snapped her head in his direction before looking around at the other lords and ladies. “You all agree with your _queen?_ You will forego my aid for the sake of your _pride?_ Are you that afraid to bend your knee to me that you would sooner risk your very lives?”

This time it was the young and feisty Lyanna Mormont who spoke, “We know no queen but the Queen in the North, whose name is Stark.”

Sandor and Theon exchanged glances before following their queen out of the hall. They spotted her to the right, entering her daytime solar. They entered the room quietly, but Sansa immediately looked up at them from where she stood beside a small table with a pitcher and cups. She looked at them strangely before dumping the water from the pitcher into a plant and promptly vomiting into it. Theon rushed to her side, but she waved him away. After emptying the contents of her stomach she wiped her mouth and looked up at the two men. She leaned against the wall, wiping stray hairs from her face, before sliding down to sit on the floor, knees bent.

“What have I done?” she asked no one in particular.

Theon knelt beside her and rested a hand on her knee but did not speak.

_Say something, dog! Gods, why can you never think of something to say, you big, dumb aurochs?!_

Finally Sandor took a seat in one of the chairs facing her. “You did well, girl.”

“I _threatened_ a woman with 100,000 soldiers and three dragons at her disposal!”

“No, you refused to submit to a ridiculous request. It’s called _negotiation_ and that was the first step: establishing that you’re not to be trifled with, that the North will not be so easily won.”

“But the North _can_ be won that easily, or rather _wiped out_ with a flick of her wrist.”

“The North is vast, and cold; its castles and keeps are well fortified. She has summer armies…”

“I know, but they’re very _large_ armies. And her dragons seem unbothered by the cold.”

“Listen to me: she may be rash, but she does not seem stupid, and she’d _have_ to be stupid to attack the North. She doesn’t want to fight the North, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach at the same time, all while maintaining her hold on Essos. Even twice as many soldiers would be worthless when spread so thin.”

Sansa rubbed her forehead, seemingly calmed for the moment. Quietly she spoke, “I won’t marry again.”

Sandor’s stomach clenched, his heart ached, but it was Theon who responded, “Sansa, no one will make you wed…”

“But if my bannerman see the merit of having her as an ally, if they pressure me—”

“They won’t pressure you! They love you, Sansa.” Theon then told Sansa what Lord Umber and Lady Mormont said to the Dragon Queen after Sansa stormed out.

Sansa chuckled weakly, “That Lyanna Mormont, I think she’s ready to take on the Night King’s entire army by herself… she’d probably win, too.”

With Sansa’s spirits restored, Sandor thought back to Daenerys’ words from just a few minutes earlier. He wanted to ask about Harrold Hardyng. He wanted to ask about the imp. He wanted to ask if she _really_ bit Ramsay’s throat out of his rotten neck. But now was not the time. His desire for knowledge would, once again, go unfulfilled as he tended to the needs and emotions of his young charge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did tag this fic as not Dany friendly. :) While I certainly wrote her as arrogant (which is how she always came across to me in books and show), I don't think her terms in this chapter are truly unreasonable. She has her eyes set on the throne, and sending so many soldiers to fight north of the wall would be at great cost to her. She would want much in return. 
> 
> Hope the many mysteries about Sansa's past aren't driving everyone crazy. I have a high tolerance for suspense. Having said that, some Sansa introspection coming up will answer some questions.
> 
> If you're still reading this fic, thanks. I wrote it for myself as a creative outlet. I have no idea if others will enjoy it, but I'm not stopping now.


	26. Peacemaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New POV
> 
> Jon defends his sister.

**Jorah**

After Lady Stark departed the great hall her guards and bannermen also filed out, leaving only Jon, Daenerys, and Missandei at the center table, and Jorah still standing at the front wall.

_Well that went well…_

Jon allowed Daenerys a few minutes to calm herself before breaking the uncomfortable silence, “Your grace, I apologize if you feel you’ve been threatened, I can assure you that was not my sister’s intent…”

“Oh _can_ you assure me, Lord Commander? She told me I should be afraid of her then described how she bit out the throat of her late husband like an animal!”

“Whatever Sansa did to Ramsay Bolton he deserved a thousand times over. As for the other part, I believe she meant to caution _you_ against attacking her people, not to threaten an attack on you.”

“But Lord Commander… Jon… I did not _say_ anything about attacking her people. I told you both I want to be able to call the North my ally…”

“You want to be able to call the North your _kingdom_. And let me be clear, as a man of the Night’s Watch I remain neutral as to the passing of thrones from king to king, or queen to queen… I know you did not threaten an attack on the North, but you made it clear you wish to rule the North, just as you wish to rule the other kingdoms… Sansa knows you are planning to attack those kingdoms to take the crown, so why would she not believe you’d be willing to attack the North to take _her_ crown?”

Daenerys appeared to soften slightly, seeing the logic of his words.

Jon seemed to choose his next words carefully, “Your grace, my sister’s story is not mine to tell, nor would I even be able to tell you much – she shares so few details of the past years of her life – but you should know that my sister has suffered greatly first at the hands of King Joffrey and Queen Cersei, then at the hands of the Boltons, and I suspect even in between – in her time in the Vale…”

“She doesn’t seek pity, your grace, but I know that whatever she has been through personally, not to mention the loss of our entire family, has scarred her deeply. She is not an irrational person, I promise you, but her view of the world has become understandably biased. As a survival mechanism, I believe she has learned to be hyper-sensitive to any threats, or _potential_ threats…”

Daenerys stated the obvious, “…and I am a potential threat.”

Jon smiled, “just a little bit.”

Daenerys sighed, “I understand your sister’s position, Jon, but it does not change the fact that an alliance requires _mutual_ compromise and, often, mutual sacrifice.”

“That is true, your grace. I am not asking for you to yield entirely. I only ask that you remain here, give Sansa some time, and then continue your discussions toward a shared goal.”

“And will you counsel your sister to do the same?”

“I will, your grace.”

Daenerys nodded her head decisively. “I shall do as you ask then, with one condition: I wish to travel north with you, with my dragons. I want to see this threat for myself. Perhaps your sister will accompany us, and we can resume our negotiations at Castle Black after I’ve seen this _dead army_ for myself.”

“I suppose that is a rational request, to want to see the enemy before agreeing to fight it. I must first speak to Sansa, though I believe she will be amenable. However we should leave at once, allowing but a few days to prepare – it will take three sennights to reach Castle Black by horse.”

Daenerys smiled, “I don’t suppose you’d consider an alternate means of travel...”

Jon’s eyes widened, “As _efficient_ as that would be, your grace, I’d prefer to be a bit… closer to the ground.”

“Very well, perhaps the time on the road together will be good toward improving our relations.”

“I pray it will, your grace.”

Jon led Daenerys and Missandei out of the hall. As Jorah followed, he exhaled a sigh of relief. _Thank the Gods I won’t have to ride that winged beast again, at least for a while._


	27. Haunted by the Past

**Sansa**

The evening of the failed _negotiations_ with Daenerys, Sansa retired to her solar to tend to the affairs of the day that had been neglected. She took her dinner there, alone, replaying the entire exchange between her, Jon and Daenerys over and over again. She hated to admit it even to herself, but Daenerys’ comments about Sansa being known as the ‘widow wolf’ troubled her deeply. She shouldn’t be bothered by what others thought of her – especially not Southerners, but the habit was too deeply engrained. During her entire upbringing it was clear that Sansa’s worth was defined largely by how _others_ viewed her: her beauty and charm would secure her a favorable marriage; her family name would secure her respect; her demeanor – fair but firm – would earn her the admiration of her lord husband’s people. That mindset was difficult to break, but that eagerness to please did not serve her well in King’s Landing, nor the Vale, and she cursed herself for still possessing it now after – _everything._

Sansa forced her mind to focus on the letters before her, and she was so successful that without realizing it she began to drift to sleep right there in her cushioned chair, exhausted from the emotions and events of the day.

In her slumber she should have dreamt of dragons or wights, but instead she dreamt of a _mockingbird_ – a man so sinisterly clever and routinely underestimated that he was every bit a monster.

> _A brown-haired Sansa steps gingerly into Petyr Baelish’s solar one sunny mid-morning in the castle Eyrie, in the Vale of Arryn. The man looks up at her warmly. “Daughter, what brings your lovely face into my solar on this beautiful morning?” Sansa hands him a scroll bearing a wax sigil she does not recognize. “Ah, thank you my dear. You make the prettiest courier, that is certain!” She wants to leave but he bids her to his side, then pats his lap gently, beckoning her. She sits on his knee, but he pulls her closer so that her bottom is flush to his belly._
> 
> _“I have wonderful news, sweetling. Lady Waynwood has tentatively agreed to a match between you and her ward – you remember Harrold Hardyng who was so taken with you at the tourney?” Sansa only nods, willing her stomach to settle._
> 
> _“That’s it? I expected you to be more pleased daughter.”_
> 
> _“I am, father,” she lies, ineffectively._
> 
> _“You do not seem so.”_
> 
> _“I am just nervous, forgive me if I seem ungrateful.”_
> 
> _“You are nervous about your wedding night_ , _yes? Don’t be my dear. Harry is a kind young man, he will treat you with the utmost tenderness, I am certain.”_
> 
> _Sansa forces a sweet smile, which Petyr returns, “There! That’s what I want to see. You know my only concern is to see you safe and happy, don’t you?” Sansa nods again, thinking he will dismiss her now. She is wrong. “Well, why don’t you show your father how grateful you are?” He tilts his face upward slightly, while placing a thumb on her chin to tilt hers down. She knows what he wants and knows she cannot leave before giving it to him. She places a chaste kiss on his thin lips. She opens her eyes and sees Petyr frowning at her, “Sweetling, I think I deserve more thanks than that for arranging such an advantageous match.” She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and kisses him again, this time allowing him to part her lips and taste her with his tongue. It lasts only a few seconds, but she can feel him stiffening against the back of her thigh._
> 
> _“That’s much better. Now run along dear, find your cousin. Tomorrow we begin preparations for a wedding.”_
> 
> _She exits the room, but it is not the hallway she steps into. Instead she is walking down a snow-covered path and feels not confused but frightened. In the distance Ramsay stands under a Weirwood tree. She realizes someone has taken her arm and, turns to see her brother’s body walking beside her, wearing his direwolf’s head in place of his own. She smiles._ Robb and Grey Wind have come to save me! _But then she looks upon the guests gathered at either side of the path. On the right side is her family: father, mother, Arya, Bran, Rickon, and Jon. She smiles at them, but they only shake their heads in displeasure. Arya and her father look angry, while her mother is crying. As Sansa walks past, she hears her mother whisper, “How can you do this to us Sansa? They betrayed us!”_
> 
> _“What do you mean? Who betrayed you?” Sansa cries. But she doesn’t get an answer. She turns to look at the other side of the Godswood and sees the faces of Cersei and Tywin Lannister, Joffrey, Tommen, and Myrcella Baratheon, and Margaery Tyrell. Her eyes land on the tall figure of the Hound in his Kingsguard uniform, sitting in the second row. He looks directly at Sansa and smiles – not the shy smile she knows now, but the hateful, venomous grin he wore in King’s Landing when he would tease her. He too shakes his head at her, laughing, “Stupid little bird!” Everyone laughs, even the members of her own family, and even her hideous groom. Sansa is confused and keeps pleading for someone to explain the cause of their laughter, to tell her what she is seemingly doing wrong. The pain of deep regret washes over her, though she knows not the cause. She begins sweating and crying, which makes everyone laugh even more..._

She woke with a start and jumped from her chair. It took only a few moments for her to regain her senses, and she knew what she must do. She threw on her cloak and practically ran out her bedroom, and straight into the solid chest of Sandor Clegane.

Her first instinct was to ask him why everyone was laughing at her in her dream, but of course that was ridiculous and, truthfully, she already knew the answer. Instead she asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Figured you wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight, didn’t want you wandering around by yourself,” he replied matter-of-factly. She objected but he just stared at her, blinking.

Irritated she relented, “Fine! You can escort me since you’ve got nothing better to do.”

He ignored the attempt at insult and extended his bent elbow to her, “It _is_ my job now, remember?”

“I never said I wanted to be followed every hour of the day and night!”

She didn’t need to tell him where to go, he led her straight to the Godswood, then stood a respectable distance away as she kneeled.

Sansa’s thoughts were scattered. She wanted to pray but those words would not come. Images of Petyr Baelish invaded her mind as they had just done her dream. One memory in particular could not be shaken away:

> _It was less than a fortnight after Harry had succumbed to fever – a fever she suspected was caused by some poison administered by Petyr, though she knew not why or how. She was lying in bed, eyes squeezed shut as Petry grunted above her with every unwelcome prod into her body. As always, she hadn’t resisted or plead to be left alone. She feared what would happen if she denied him, and part of her felt it was her duty to the man who had saved her from the Lannisters, though it made the act no less revolting. From the change in his breathing and the sloppiness of his kisses on her neck she knew he was close. Indeed, a few moments later he began thrusting into her erratically before making one last, deep push. He moaned his release into her ear, “Catelyn” – her mother’s name. It was the same every time, and it never seemed to cause him shame. After their coupling he would revert to calling her ‘Alayne’, the name of his fictitious bastard daughter Sansa was living as._

What made this particular night so exceptional in Sansa’s memory, however, is what he said _after_ the act, as he lay in the damp sheets, sated, and stroking her arm lightly.

> _“I have good news, sweetling. I didn’t speak of it before because I didn’t want to get your hopes up, but now that it’s all but definite I will not deny your happiness another second.” For a fleeting moment Sansa allowed herself to dream he had learned the location of one of her missing siblings, but he quickly dashed her hopes, “I’ve been in communication with Roose Bolton, Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell. He is seeking a wife for his son and heir, Ramsay Bolton.”_
> 
> _Sansa knew of the Boltons. Roose was one of her late father’s most loyal bannerman, and Lord of the Dreadfort, the stronghold just northeast of Winterfell. He had sworn loyalty to her brother Robb after her father’s execution. Sansa had met Roose a few times in her youth and recalled him to be serious and cold, though courteous enough. He had even once asked her father for Sansa’s hand, but both her parents disliked the idea and politely declined, saying they had promised Sansa to make a match with someone closer to her age, though Sansa knew that to be a lie. She also vaguely remembered meeting his son, Ramsay, but recalled him as a Snow, not a Bolton._ Perhaps, being Roose’s only son, he’s been legitimized, _she thought._
> 
> _She tried to collect what she knew of the Boltons more recently. Petyr had told her very little during her months in the Vale. She only knew that Ramsay, under Robb Stark’s orders, had reclaimed Winterfell from the traitor Theon Greyjoy. After Sansa’s family was murdered, Roose Bolton remained in possession of Winterfell and later bent the knee to King Joffrey Baratheon, effectively ending the North’s involvement in the Five Kings War. It bothered Sansa that he kneeled to the bastard king, but by then so much of the Northern army had been disbanded or destroyed that continuing to resist would have been tantamount to suicide. No, she could not fault Roose Bolton for surrendering, much as she misliked it._
> 
> _What Sansa did_ not _know at the time – because the Lannisters and Petyr had never told her – was that Roose Bolton conspired with the Freys and Tywin Lannister to murder Sansa’s mother and brother, as well as her brother’s men, after the Starks had been extended guest rights at a Frey wedding. It was an action without honor or mercy and became known as the ‘Red Wedding’ – a phrase Sansa despised due to the bloody image it conjured in her mind._
> 
> _“So, daughter,” Sansa looked up to Petyr’s face from where she rested her head on his chest, just as he liked, “are you ready to become_ Lady of Winterfell _?”_
> 
> And never have to lay beneath you as you call out my mother’s name?
> 
> _“Yes, father, I am ready.”_

Suddenly Sansa couldn’t get out of the Godswood fast enough. Her futile attempt at prayer only left her feeling more angst. It wasn’t prayer she needed – it was _confession_. She rose and, without waiting for Sandor, walked out in haste. With his long strides he caught up to her quickly, and stated the obvious, “You’re not going to the Glass Gardens.”

“No, not tonight. I need no protection in the crypts, I thank you for your company, but you may retire.”

As before, he voiced no objection but also did not relent. Sansa let out a sigh to indicate her displeasure, but he was unfazed. They entered the crypts, Sandor taking the torch near the entryway. Sansa stopped in front of her father’s tomb and Sandor placed the torch in the nearest sconce. After some moments Sansa tapped her foot, impatiently, “I need to speak with my father, and I won’t do it in front of you.”

“Are you going to talk about me?”

_“No!”_ she answered indignantly.

“Then I care not what you say. Speak your mind, girl, pretend I’m not here.”

The icy stare she shot back at him made him shrink, “As my lady commands, I’ll just… take a little tour of the famous tombs of Northern Kings.” He disappeared around the corner.

Sansa waited a few seconds until she could no longer hear his footfalls in the distance, then exhaled.

“Hello Father…”

\---------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor obliged his queen and walked away from her, continuing deeper into the crypts. He’d never been one to fear the dead, but something about the closeness of crypts always left him feeling smothered. The walkways of crypts were not built to accommodate men of his height, and the crypts of Winterfell were no exception. To add to his discomfort, he felt unsettled thinking about the history of the place. The Stark line – the little bird’s ancestors – could be traced back eight thousand years. He pondered how many sets of bones inhabited the dank place in addition to those of Ned Stark.

_What is she going to talk to her father about?_

Sandor was ashamed that he wanted to eavesdrop on the little bird, but the temptation was too strong to resist. She’d shared so few of her feelings with him, and his curiosity to learn about her past, and about the inner workings of her mind, had become something of an obsession for him.

_How can I protect her, or counsel her, if I don’t know what troubles her?_ he justified. His mind was set; he tiptoed noiselessly back toward the corner he had rounded just a few seconds earlier.

At first, he heard nothing and thought she was playing a cruel jape on him – sending him deep into the eerie crypts then walking out to leave him alone with the ghosts, but then he heard her voice. It wasn’t the steady voice of the Queen in the North, but the timid utterance of the girl he once knew.

“Hello Father… I come to you very troubled.”

She paused.

“There is much in my present and future to fear, but tonight it is my past which haunts me…”

“I’ve never spoken to you of this, it brings me too much shame… but I know you’ve seen all, and the idea of what you and mother and Robb must think of me… well, it’s burgeoned to a weight I can no longer bear… I should have come to you long ago. I should have apologized for what you had to witness…”

“I chose ignorance, and complacency. I knew you didn’t trust him, Hells I didn’t even trust him, but I chose to put my life and my _virtue_ in his hands… even after he murdered my aunt, my _blood!”_

_Her aunt? She only had the one aunt, Lysa Arryn, and Sansa was only with her while she was in the Vale -- with Littlefinger!_

“I knew I was endangering my cousin by agreeing to Petyr’s plan, but I did it anyway. I acted selfishly. I was willing to risk my cousin’s life for my own _comfort!_ But it wasn’t Robert Arryn I condemned; it was my own husband… Harry needn’t have died! He only died because he wed _me_! I should have known that by marrying him I was only casting him as a pawn in Petyr’s game, only to be permanently removed from the board when Petry found a more advantageous pawn!”

Sansa’s voice was quavering, she was clearly rattled by her own memories and regrets.

“And apparently I _still_ didn’t learn my lesson because when he presented me with another choice – another opportunity to be an accomplice in his scheme – I made the same decision. Once again, I put faith in the wrong person, against all my instincts, because I was _afraid_ … and the decision cost me dearly… it cost me…”

Sandor thought he heard tears in her voice now.

She sighed, “…well, you know what it cost me.”

_What did it cost you, little bird? Your pride? Your honor? Your sanity?_

“I’ve brought so much shame on my family, and now I feel I’m drowning in it. I made a deal with the Stranger himself and every Stark will pay the debt.”

_There are no other Starks left, what in Seven Hells is she talking about?_

She sounded completely defeated, “I cannot change the past just as I can never escape it. I can only beg you will forgive me, and pledge to never again make a decision based on selfish, cowardly motives. I will place this pledge before all others, even those which I’ve made to myself.”

There was at least a minute of silence and Sandor wondered if she had forgotten he was there and walked out, but the torch light glowing from around the corner had not moved.

“Please forgive me father. Please, _all of you_ , forgive me. I pray to never again have cause to request this of you.”

After a few more moments she called out in a louder voice that almost made Sandor jump, “Sandor! I’m finished!”

_Shit, she thinks I’m deep in the crypts._ Sandor tiptoed several paces away, then turned and strode back in her direction. As he rounded the corner, he saw no suspicion in her eyes, so his ruse was apparently successful. In fact, he saw nothing in her eyes – they were completely blank and did not meet his. He slowly reached for the torch and extended his arm to her. She took it and allowed him to lead her out. As they walked back to the main keep, she was silent. He walked her right to her chamber door and went to open it before she stilled his large hand with her smaller, cold one. It rested there like burning hot ice. She did not raise her eyes as she spoke, “I think I must consider the Dragon Queen’s offer…”

“Little bird…”

But she hadn’t been speaking to him, not truly, he realized, as she did not listen for his response before pushing the door open and disappearing from his sight.

Sandor stared at the space she had just occupied, knees suddenly weak. He felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him and it was not the idea of the little bird kneeling to the Dragon Queen, it wasn’t the idea of going to war against his former masters, the Lannisters, or even the bloody wights – no, what delivered the blow to his gut was the image of the little bird with another man’s cloak draped over her shoulders.


	28. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives unexpected visitors

**Sansa**

The morning after Daenerys’ arrival Jon and Sansa broke their fast together in her solar while Daenerys was hosted by Lady Karstak, one of the less outspoken vassals. Jon told Sansa of the plan he and Daenerys had agreed to. After some reluctance, Sansa also agreed: she would join them and journey north to the Wall, then continue negotiations there. The journey to and from seemed like a waste of everyone’s valuable time, especially if Jon’s estimates were true, but Sansa yielded. She would leave Winterfell in the capable hands of Alysane and Lyanna Mormont, with detailed instructions as to the work that should be done during Sansa’s absence: without alarming the residents of the castle, much of the less essential rebuilding efforts would be diverted toward bolstering the castle’s defensive structures. They would increase their purchase of provisions from White Harbor, with emphasis on foods that can keep for long periods of time, and medical supplies. Sansa hoped the army of the dead would be defeated before reaching the Wall but knew to prepare for the worst.

She tasked Theon and Sandor with preparations for the journey north. Sandor wanted to stay by her side, but she insisted there was too much to be done for one person to spend the day acting only as a wet nurse, as she put it. They would depart at dawn in two days. Alysane Mormont held court that day, freeing Sansa to tend to her own preparations.

By midday Sansa was alone in her solar penning letters to each of the Northern lords and ladies with details of the great threat. She considered not sharing the information with them for fear of creating a panic – or worse, a rebellion – but decided it was too important for them to begin to put in place their own contingencies. At minimum she strongly advised that each vassal begin collecting food and supplies from its subjects in the event their people would need to quickly flee their homes into the relative safety of their lord’s castle.

After sending the letters Sansa’s hand ached but she pressed on, beginning to write out detailed instructions for the Mormont sisters, the castellan, the captain-of-the-guards, the head builder, the head farmer, the maester, and a few other key people. She was barely into this task when a servant announced one Podrick Payne was requesting her presence. Sansa jumped so quickly that some parchments flew off her desk. She rushed to the door and only waited for the servant to exit before flinging her arms around Podrick’s neck. Only after stepping back did she realize he was red-faced and winded.

“What happened, Podrick? I am surprised you are back so soon! Are Jaime and Brienne well?”

“They are, my lady, perfectly” he huffed, “only… well, they require your immediate attention… that is, if it please you, my lady, er- my queen.”

_Same old Podrick, agonizingly courteous even when the situation dictates haste._

Sansa’s heart began to pound. Shortly after reclaiming Winterfell Sansa had dispatched Brienne, Ser Jaime, and their squire Podrick Payne on a mission of indeterminate length to look for any surviving Stark siblings. Brienne was reluctant to leave Sansa’s side, but Sansa was insistent. She held some hope that either Arya, Bran, or Rickon was alive – most likely Arya. She instructed them to begin their search in Braavos, as Arya was last seen at the Saltpans and could have boarded a ship for Braavos there, at the port city of Maidenpool.

She did _not_ expect to find them back at Winterfell only three moons later, and Sansa wondered if that was a good or bad sign as she walked briskly with Podrick toward the stables.

_Why are we meeting in the stables?_

Upon entering, Sansa greeted Jaime and Brienne, who wore nervous expressions on their faces. There was no one else in sight.

_Surely, they wouldn’t look so grim if they’d found one of my siblings… alive._

Steeling herself, Sansa gave an abrupt command, “Just tell me. Whatever it is, just tell me.”

Brienne and Jaime looked at each and nodded in tandem. Jaime stepped aside and motioned for Sansa to walk past him, “If you will, my lady, this way.”

Sansa walked slowly toward the stall Jaime pointed out, at first seeing no one. After a moment a short figure cast in shadow took a tentative step toward her. She saw the silhouette of a shaggy-haired head, at a height with her chest.

_Rickon?!_

But as the shape stepped into the light, it was not her youngest brother who manifested – it was someone else from her past…

_Tyrion Lannister._

Tyrion would barely meet her eyes as Sansa stood, mouth agape. Finally he jested, “I’m sure I am not the _family member_ you were hoping to see…”

No one spoke for what felt like an eternity. Then, in one swift motion Sansa dropped to her knees before her first husband, and took his short, stubby fingers in her long, slender ones.

“You’re alive?” she murmured.

He laughed his familiar chuckle, “It would appear so, my lovely wife.”

Sansa smiled at the absurdity of her question, “So am I.”

\---------------------------------------------

With Podrick ensuring the way was clear of prying eyes, the group of Sansa, Brienne, Jaime, and Tyrion walked swiftly to the nearby Broken Tower. Podrick dusted off a few chairs and lit a fire in one of the more inhabitable rooms of the long-unoccupied tower.

Jaime spoke in his usual sardonic tone, “It seems much has changed in our time away.”

_Daenerys and her dragons!_ In her shock at seeing Tyrion, Sansa had nearly forgotten about her _guests._ “Yes. It was wise of you to stay out of sight upon your arrival. I’m not sure Daenerys _Targaryen_ will be thrilled to see not one but two of Tywin Lannister’s sons.”

Jaime chuckled, “Your powers for understatement are unparalleled, my lady.”

Tyrion spoke next, “My brother and his lovely companion have filled me in on the goings-on at Winterfell – ah, that reminds me, congratulations are in order, _your grace_ ,” he bowed his head, “but I’m sure you are curious to hear of my _adventures_ since we parted ways…”

“Now _that_ is an understatement,” Sansa’s eyes widened.

Taking a deep breath, Tyrion began sharing his tale. After Joffrey keeled over dead at his own wedding, Tyrion was surprised to find himself being whisked away by an unexpected savior: Lord Varys, King’s Landing’s so-called Master of Whispers, the man whose business was knowing everyone’s business. Varys assured Tyrion that another party was, at that very moment, leading his wife to safety as well. With hardly a chance to question Varys, Tyrion was thrown onto a small boat with a group of sellswords. Varys muttered something about the _good of the realm_ as he bid a confused Tyrion farewell at the harbor docks.

Tyrion and his sellswords arrived in Pentos and stayed there for some time before traveling north to Braavos. Tyrion understood little of Varys’ methods or motives, but it was clear that all arrangements and payments for Tyrion’s safe and even comfortable living were being handled by Varys via proxy: the dark-haired leader of the sellswords, Jorge. After years in Braavos with nary an incident, Jorge spotted Ser Jaime (he had seen the knight in King’s Landing numerous times) by pure coincidence – or _luck_. Jorge followed Jaime back to the shabby house that he, Brienne, and Podrick had rented during their time searching Braavos for the missing Stark children. The next day Jorge returned to the house with a heavily cloaked Tyrion.

“The rest, I’m sure, is fairly obvious,” Tyrion concluded his story, “it took little convincing for me to leave behind my boring – albeit comfortable – refuge in Braavos. I’m shocked to admit it, but one _can_ tire of Braavosi whores. Besides, we _treacherous_ Lannister brothers must stick together.”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she took in the tale. “I’m afraid you may come to regret your decision, Lord Tyrion. Winter is here, an army of the dead is bearing down on us, and three dragons have taken up residence in our fields.”

Tyrion pursed his lips, “Yes, about that... Being in closer proximity to Daenerys Targaryen over the past few years, I may be able to lend some counsel.”

“I welcome any such counsel, my lord. I am currently unsure whether Daenerys is our white-haired savior or a mad queen in the making.”

“I am equally undecided. I have reason to believe either could be true, though the _trend_ would point toward the latter, I’m afraid…” Tyrion then shared everything he knew of the young Dragon Queen. Some Sansa had already heard, but she welcomed Tyrion’s confirmation. By Tyrion’s description it sounded as if Daenerys’ quest had been purely righteous to start. She seemed to genuinely care about her followers and spoke of ‘breaking the wheel’ of oppression and leading the Seven Kingdoms into a new era of peace and equality. She wished to be a queen worthy of her people’s love.

“Sounds rather noble,” Sansa admitted.

“Indeed, my lady, except that it seems the more power she acquires, the less willing she is to compromise with her enemies.”

“Perhaps they’re not worthy of her compromise?” _Why am I defending her?_

“My lady, you are wise beyond your years, but if I may offer you some advice, it is that we have more to gain by making peace with our enemies than by fighting them – or killing them…”

“And that is what Daenerys is doing?”

“Killing them, yes. She determines entire masses of people to be guilty of some crime then eliminates them wholesale. For instance the masters in Slavers Bay… and I know what you’re thinking, they _are_ guilty, they are slaveholders, after all… but the truth is not that simple. Many of these men and women treated their slaves as well as you undoubtedly treat the servants of Winterfell. But Daenerys made no distinction between the _just_ masters and the cruel ones.”

“So she has a one-sided view of the world, each person is either good or evil, and those she deems evil, she destroys?”

“In essence, yes.”

“This is most concerning, my lord, as no man – or woman – is all good, or all evil.”

“Precisely, my wise queen… now please, don’t take my appraisal to mean you shouldn’t attempt to treat with her… The fact that she is here to lend aid, and the fact that she hasn’t burnt Winterfell to ash, means she either views yours as the _good_ side, or she has learned to be less rigid in her thinking.”

“I will take heed your counsel, my lord.” Sansa pondered a moment, pressing a finger to her pursed lips. “Though it occurs to me that your very presence, my lord, and yours, Ser Jaime, gives us a unique opportunity to test Daenerys’ capacity for compromise and reason _…_ ”

Jaime and Tyrion exchanged a curious glance before the former spoke, “You mean to introduce us to Daenerys as an _experiment_ to measure her mercy?”

“If you’d be willing, yes. Of course I’d not let anything happen to you, she is here only with one guard and one advisor…”

“…and three dragons, let’s not forget those,” Tyrion snorted.

“Yes, but dragon fire is an imprecise weapon. To use the dragons against you she’d need to burn Winterfell to a cinder. That would not inspire confidence in the people of Westeros, whose loyalty and love she is seeking.”

Brienne spoke for the first time, “That’s quite a gamble, my lady, when this Daenerys need not ever know that Jaime and Tyrion are here in the first place.”

“True, but what are we _really_ gambling? If she proves to be unyielding then our fate is already sealed as her enemy, as the terms she has presented to me are unacceptable for the North. If she proves to be reasonable, however, then I would be much more confident entering into an alliance with her.”

Jaime spoke again, “But would it really be _unreasonable_ for her to demand my head, even if not my brother’s? I did execute her father, after all.”

“And you had good reason, Ser Jaime… even Aerys II’s daughter should agree with the necessity of the choice you had to make… again, _if_ she is capable of seeing reason.”

Sansa thought back to the tale Jaime reluctantly shared with her during their stay at Castle Black. As if unloading a weight, Jaime confessed a truth he had held close for many years. As a young knight, Jaime was sworn to protect Daenerys’ father, the _mad king_ Aerys II Targaryen. However Aerys grew increasingly violent and irrational, and eventually ordered Jaime to kill his own father, Tywin Lannister, and order Aerys’ pyromancers to set ablaze the thousands of barrels of wildfire that sat in the underground tunnels and sewers of King’s Landing. Should Jaime have complied, every soul in King’s Landing would have perished within minutes. Instead Jaime chose to stab Aerys in the back – literally – saving the people of King’s Landing, who rewarded his effort by calling him Kingslayer.

Jaime and Tyrion exchanged looks once again before agreeing to move forward with Sansa’s plan. They would speak to Daenerys first thing the next morning, but first, Sansa sent Podrick to _inconspicuously_ summon Jon to the Broken Tower. When Jon arrived some minutes later, he was just as stunned to see Tyrion as Sansa had been, but their reunion was friendly enough – Jon and Tyrion spent time together when Tyrion visited the Wall many years ago, and the pair became fast friends, commiserating with the other’s plight: the shunned bastard son of Ned Stark and the shunned dwarf son of Tywin Lannister.

Jon agreed with the merits of Sansa’s plan. He remained confident that Daenerys was not _mad_ like her father, though he seemed less certain after hearing Tyrion’s appraisal of the woman.

It was time for the evening meal once they finished talking. Food and bedding were covertly sent to the Broken Tower along with ‘enough wine for ten dwarves’, as Tyrion had requested. Sansa had much work to do but decided it would be impolite to not sup with Daenerys two nights in a row.

\------------------------------------------------

Surprisingly, Daenerys and Sansa were able to treat each other civilly during the meal. They avoided sensitive topics and instead shared stories of their childhoods. Daenerys described the lands of Essos, the Dothraki horsemen, and her Unsullied army. Sansa spoke of the Northern customs, including the worship of the old gods and the magic of the Weirwood trees. She also explained the elaborate network of pipes that funneled warm water from nearby hot springs into the castle to warm its walls. Daenerys seemed genuinely impressed at the northern ingenuity. Jon contributed to the discussion his own stories of the Wall and the Night’s Watch, which also fascinated Daenerys.

During the meal Sansa frequently found herself looking to the table where several of the guards took their meal. Among them were Theon, Sandor, and Jorah, who were not made to stand behind their respective queens this night in order to instill a sense of amiability in all present. Sansa was surprised to see the normally quiet Sandor actually engage in conversation with the older knight. They displayed uncannily similar mannerisms and shared a habit of frequently glancing at their respective charges, as if expecting an assassin at any moment. From their hand gestures and the occasional words that drifted to Sansa’s ears it seemed they were exchanging battle stories, or perhaps fighting techniques. Jorah appeared to be a humble man, never once possessing the face of a braggard, and always listening attentively when Sandor spoke. Theon spoke very little, if at all, and it pained Sansa’s heart to wonder if he would ever feel comfortable in a crowded room again.

To Sansa’s embarrassment there were several times Sandor looked in her direction to find her staring back at him. Each time she quickly averted her eyes back to Jon or Daenerys but was sure she was blushing. Sansa knew as well as anyone that the color of her face acted as a weathervane of her emotions, no matter how hard she willed the blood not to rush to her cheeks.

A few times throughout the evening Sansa felt as if Daenerys and Jon were having a private discussion, and she would observe a shyness in Jon that she recalled from their youth whenever he was in the presence of a girl he fancied.

_If the queen returns his feelings, that could work to our advantage._

During dessert – a rare luxury in Winterfell these days – Sansa inquired as to how Jorah Mormont came into Daenerys’ service. As Daenerys told, he had entered her company when – unbeknownst to her – working for her enemy, King Robert Baratheon. However, he grew fond of the young queen and rather than assassinating her he actually saved her life on multiple occasions. He became her most trusted servant, a fiercely loyal protector that would die before seeing her harmed. He was a capable but humble warrior, a _true knight_ , as she put it. Sansa couldn’t help but find similarity in her own history with Sandor Clegane. Chancing another glance in his direction she startled to find he was looking back at her, but this time, instead of looking away, she held his gaze and offered a small smile.


	29. Burying the Hatchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People from different sides try to come to terms

**Sandor**

“Hound, I know I’ve gotten prettier since the last time you saw me, but it really isn’t polite to stare.”

_Fucking Imp._

“Come now, gentlemen, we’re all on the same side now… which is, oddly enough, the _opposite_ side from where we all started, even though we arrived here at different times.”

_Fucking Kingslayer._

“Relax, brother, Clegane knows I’m japing… why look at that face… have you ever seen a face so thoroughly _amused?”_

_Fucking Imp._

“Tyrion, please. As Brienne and I have been in Lady Sansa’s service the longest, I feel we speak for her in asking you to try to be civil with one another.”

_Fucking Kingslayer._

“I must agree, Hound, it won’t make a very good impression on this Daenerys Targaryen if Lady Sansa’s own sworn shield is staring daggers at Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime. The idea is to get her to _accept_ them, not roast them alive.”

_Fucking wench._

“Thank you, Lady Brienne, for reminding my brother and I of that very real possibility,” the Imp raised his wine cup to her in mock toast.

Sandor finally barked out, “Why the fuck should she accept them? Fine, if Lady Sansa trusts three-paw here so be it, but the Imp’s been back what, less than a day, after being unseen for years, and we’re supposed to trust him?”

“Tell me, Clegane, who might I betray Lady Sansa to? My sister? My father? Do you know they’ve offered my weight in gold to any man who brings me in dead, and double for bringing me in alive? Do you know how many fewer dwarves there are in the world than there were three years ago?”

“What a pity.”

“Well that’s just _rude_ , what have dwarves ever done to you, other than remind you of how freakishly tall you are?”

Sandor stepped forward but ignored the insult, “Perhaps you’ve no love for your kin, but you were in Essos this whole time, then _conveniently_ show up the day after the _Dragon Queen_ flies in? Perhaps you’ve been serving her, and you’re here to try to convince Lady Sansa to do everything the mad bitch demands!”

Brienne gasped but Sandor would have none of it, “Oh what of it, wench? I’m the only one in this room who’s looked in her eyes, the girl’s crazy, mark my words. As mad as her old man.”

Jaime tried to play peacemaker, “Clegane, you may very well be right, which is why we are _testing_ her sanity now, in this room, without her dragons and 100,000 soldiers. This is Lady Sansa’s plan, and Tyrion and I agree with it even though it’s _our_ necks on the block.”

“I’ve no qualms with you Kingslayer, at least none at the moment, it’s your _little_ brother I don’t trust.”

“Oh you’re _hilarious!_ No one has ever called me ‘little’ before – where _did_ you come up with it?”

“I’m starting to hope the mad queen does give you to her dragons, you might be the only fucker in this world I’d wish that death on!”

Before Tyrion could retort Podrick poked his head in the room, “They’re coming.”

They were in Lady Sansa’s private solar – Jaime, Tyrion, Brienne, and Sandor – waiting for Jon and Sansa to arrive with Daenerys and her two companions.

“Please behave yourselves _boys_ ,” Brienne glared equally at all three men.

Sansa entered first, holding the door open for Jon followed by Daenerys, Jorah, and Missandei. Daenerys wore a look of confusion, but Jorah immediately recognized the people in the room and reached for his sword.

“Your grace,” Sansa spoke calmly, “I understand the timing of this is… odd… but yesterday two of my trusted shields returned to Winterfell from a mission in Braavos, and they brought with them a friend from my past…”

_She calls the dwarf her ‘friend’?!_

“May I introduce you to Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lady Brienne of Tarth… and Ser Jaime Lannister.” Sandor had rarely seen Sansa look uncomfortable, but that was the only word that could describe her now… _painfully_ uncomfortable.

Daenerys only stared for several moments. Her eyes never left Jaime. “Which are your trusted shields, and which is your _friend,_ my lady?”

Tyrion didn’t give Sansa the chance to reply, “Your grace, I’m flattered that you even have to ask, though I’m afraid the only way I could be anyone’s shield is if they quite literally held me up as a shield.” He pantomimed a straight board, but Daenerys was not amused.

Sansa interjected, “Your grace, I know you are aware that several months ago I escaped my husband and captor, Ramsay Bolton, along with only a fellow captive, Theon Greyjoy. We headed toward Castle Black, determined to get there or die trying, and it likely would have been the latter, but Brienne and Ser Jaime found us, swore vows to protect me, and saw us safely to the Wall where Jon sheltered us.”

It was clear that Daenerys was resisting the strong desire to order Ser Jorah to take the Kingslayer’s head – or more likely lunge at the man herself, though she maintained her composure, “They just _happened_ upon you in the Northern woods?”

“Not quite, your grace. They were headed to the Wall hoping to find my sister there, to fulfill oaths they each swore to my mother, Lady Catelyn Stark, before her death.”

“Why did you not tell me that Jaime Lannister was in your service? He is an enemy to both of our families!”

“Indeed his family is my enemy, I am well aware of that after living under Cersei’s thumb for over a year, but _he_ personally is not my enemy, or yours, though I understand if you find that hard to believe.”

“He murdered my father – the king he was sworn to protect – there is no other way to think of him _but_ as my enemy!”

“Ser Jaime does not deny that act, though I ask that you give him a chance to explain his reasons…”

“Reasons?!” Daenerys huffed, “Against my better judgment I will listen to his _story_ , only so I can be entertained by the creative _lies_ he concocts.”

With some prodding by Sansa and Tyrion, Jaime reluctantly told of King Aerys’ crazed and violent behavior – how he had ordered Jaime to kill his own father and burn the entire city of King’s Landing with wildfire. To everyone in the room, including Sandor, it was clear that Jaime made the right decision to kill the King instead of a million innocent people, but Jaime’s continued sense of guilt was palpable.

Daenerys was silent for some time after the conclusion of his story. She looked to Jorah, who would not meet her eyes, “Ser Jorah – is this true?”

With regret the knight sighed, “I believe it is, Kaleesi, though I wish it were not. Your father’s moniker of _Mad King_ was well-earned. I did not know the specific details Ser Jaime just shared but I have no reason to doubt him. I never told you because, well, I wanted to shield you from the pain.”

The young queen nodded. After giving her a few moments to process the shocking news, Sansa spoke gently, “Your grace, your father’s actions do not demerit your own aspirations. I did not ask Ser Jaime to share his story to make you feel guilty or ashamed, only so that you’d understand that Ser Jaime and his brother Lord Tyrion are not your enemies. I hope you can accept that. If everyone held grudges against not only their living enemies but the ancestors of their enemies, war would be never-ending. Your father burned alive my grandfather while my Uncle Brandon strangled himself trying to save him. I do not hold you responsible for that event, as I hope you don’t hold my father and Ser Jaime responsible for helping King Robert to overthrow your father.”

Daenerys finally spoke, “You are most wise, Lady Sansa. I will not seek vengeance against Ser Jaime for the death of my father, but that does not mean I trust him. Did he not fight for Joffrey Baratheon, Cersei Lannister, and Tywin Lannister – all of whom are our mutual enemies?”

“He did.”

“And yet you bring him into your service, you _trust_ him?”

“I do.”

Daenerys shook her head, “I must say, it seems a rather naïve choice…”

Brienne spoke up, standing solemnly, “Queen Daenerys, Queen Sansa… if I may be permitted to speak…”

“Please, Brienne, speak freely,” Sansa nodded.

“I have spent more time with Ser Jaime than nearly anyone in this room. He has saved my life on more than one occasion, when he didn’t need to, when it would not benefit him, and when he himself was gravely injured.” Jaime looked down as if embarrassed by the praise. “I only ever swore myself to King Renly and later Lady Catelyn Stark – both of whom were Ser Jaime’s enemies at some point. He cannot help the family he was born into, or the qualifications of the Kings he has served in the past, but I know this man’s honor, and I know his motivations. His sole purpose in life since the day he swore a vow to Lady Catelyn has been to see her daughters safe.”

Sansa smiled faintly at Brienne, who bowed her head stiffly.

Daenerys took a deep breath as Missandei whispered something in her ear, inaudible to everyone else. “Lady Sansa, Lady Brienne – your endorsements of this man’s character have been heard. So long as Ser Jaime gives me no _new_ reasons to mistrust him, I will defer to your judgment. But know this, Ser Jaime – if you make yourself my enemy by returning to your treasonous family, I will hold Ladies Sansa and Brienne accountable for your crimes.”

Jaime nodded without hesitation, “I will not disappoint you, or them, your grace.”

“Then it would seem one matter is settled…” Her gazed turned to the Imp, “I’ll admit I know very little about you, Lord Tyrion.”

“Well, I am a _very little_ man, so there isn’t as much to know.” Daeneys stared, unamused. “Apologies, humor is my answer to _awkward_ situations… Ask me anything, your grace.”

“I know your own family dislikes you – except your brother, apparently – that alone would win you my favor, except that I also know that you were accomplice in your family’s plot to steal the North by murdering the Starks and marrying their only living heir, I presume against her will,” Daenerys gestured at Sansa.

_Let’s see you worm your way out of this one, dwarf._

“Accomplice, yes, though an unwitting one: I had no idea my father was sanctioning the Frey and Bolton plot to murder Robb and Catelyn Stark. As for marrying Lady Sansa, I had little say in that matter, either, though I suppose I thought I was doing her a small favor.”

Daenerys arched an eyebrow in skepticism, “I’d be interested to hear if Lady Sansa perceived your marriage as a _favor…_ ”

Sansa cleared her throat, “I’ll not claim to have been happy to be married into the Lannister family, but there was certainly no shortage of _worse_ options at the time. Truthfully, Lord Tyrion had always been kind to me, even when it meant defying his sister and nephew. At the time I was young and bitter, but in hindsight I can say that Lord Tyrion treated me as well as possible.”

“But he knew you were wedding him against your will?”

“He did; I did not pretend to be happy about our union.”

“And was he _happy_ about it? Did he enjoy the _benefits_ of your union?”

Sansa blushed, “If you’re asking if Lord Tyrion took advantage of his husband’s rights with me, he did not.”

Sandor’s head snapped up so fast that nearly everyone turned to look at him. Sansa proceeded, “The reason my marriages to Harrold Hardyng and later Ramsay Bolton were permissible is because Lord Baelish, my _warden_ at the time, had my virtue verified by a maester, under witness of a Septon. My marriage to Lord Tyrion was never consummated and was thus invalid, as it remains to this day.”

Tyrion looked at Sansa pitifully and took her hand to give it a quick, dry kiss. Speaking only to her but loud enough for others to hear he said, “Perhaps I did you no favors after all.”

Sandor hated when a long-held belief, particularly one tainted with hatred, dissolved before his eyes, but that was exactly what just happened. In a few minutes his hatred for the dwarf at the notion of the deformed fucker taking a young Sansa Stark’s maidenhead disappeared. Tyrion spoke true: if he had consummated their marriage, she’d have likely been shielded from having to marry Harrold-what’s-his-name and Ramsay-the-bastard-Bolton.

Daenerys appeared mollified, “Lord Tyrion, your brother clearly has his role as sword and shield to Lady Sansa. In what capacity do you plan to serve her?”

Tyrion shrugged, “That’s a good question your grace. Truthfully, I hadn’t time to think on it. I suppose it will be in whatever capacity Lady Sansa will have me. I imagine I’d make a rather effective _fool_ , people laugh at dwarves even when they’re not doing anything particularly funny. I’m also qualified to be a cupbearer, I can hold her skirts when she walks across a muddy courtyard, help lace her boots…”

_“Royal taster...”_ Sandor mumbled.

“Hah! Clegane jests but I think he is onto something – my love of wine and my smaller composition would make me an effective gauge for the presence of any poison.”

Daenerys seemed slightly amused, letting her face soften a bit.

Sansa’s eyes softened as she spoke, “Lord Tyrion is an intelligent man, as he has a habit of reminding everyone. I intend to keep his counsel, if he is willing to share it.”

Tyrion looked genuinely shocked and flattered by her words, “My lady, you honor me,” he of course added in jest, “and giving advice is the one thing I love even more than wine!”

“I can think of one other,” Sandor grumbled again, and again earned Tyrion’s laughter.

“Now, now, Clegane, I do not _love_ whores, I just feel it is my _obligation_ to support the local economy.”

Brienne chastised them both, “Watch your tongues! You’re in the presence of ladies.”

Jaime snorted, “Come now, Brienne, you’re the only _lady_ in this room who blushes at the mention of that particular profession.” Brienne looked like she wanted to smack the Kingslayer’s self-amused grin off his face. _Now that I’d pay to see._

Jon, who’d been silent for the entire exchange, spoke up. “I hate to be the one to interrupt the gaiety, but Sansa, Clegane, and I have much to do before our departure. Your grace, shall I escort you to your quarters?”

“Actually, Lord Commander, it’s not every day I have the opportunity to speak to a living, breathing Lannister, much less two. If Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime would find it agreeable, I’d very much like to spend some time with them… that is, if Lady Sansa is willing to lend me her counselor and her shield.”

“It would be my pleasure, your grace. I just hope you know what you’re in for, with these two…” Jaime feigned insult while Tyrion chuckled.

Sansa looked to her tallest protectors, “Lady Brienne, Clegane, please accompany me if you would.” They both gave slight bows and followed her out after Jon left to lead Daenerys, Tyrion, Jaime, Jorah, and Missandei to a private dining hall where they could share their midday meal and converse undisturbed.

As Sansa, Sandor and Brienne walked together a few paces Brienne broke the silence, “I suppose she passed our _test_.”

Sansa frowned and replied under her breath, “I’m unconvinced. She sees the value of using Jaime to gather intelligence on the armies and defenses of King’s Landing and Casterly Rock, and Tyrion knows more about his father and sister’s tendencies than anyone alive, but I am not confident that she’ll want them around after they’ve served her purpose…”

_Clever little bird._

“Brienne, I will be very busy today and late into the night I’m sure. Once our guests leave their company, please speak to Tyrion and Jaime, find out what she asked them about. Share my concerns with them, though I suspect they both will have reached the same conclusion – certainly Tyrion will have. Report to me tonight in my solar. Clegane, continue the preparations for our departure, convene with Theon to find out what’s left to be done, and you can enlist Podrick if you need an extra set of hands. Please update me after supper if there is anything at risk of not getting done.”

The two shields nodded. Brienne escorted Sansa to her private solar.

\-----------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

That night Sansa reluctantly supped with Daenerys and Jon again in the large dining hall. She had been busy writing instructions all afternoon but still had more work to be done. She would be leaving Winterfell and its vassals in the capable of hands of Alysane and Lyanna Mormont. They were both wise beyond their years and even the roughest northerners respected them as they could best many of them with a shortsword.

During the meal Daenerys informed Sansa that only Jorah would be accompanying them to Castle Black; as a child of Naath, Missandei was ill-suited for extended cold-weather travel. Sansa begrudgingly permitted Daenerys’ advisor free rein of Winterfell so that she might observe the customs of the Northerners, including Alysane Mormont’s court proceedings.

Jon, Daenerys, and Sansa also agreed to suspend any alliance discussions until after their arrival in Castle Black where Daenerys could see the wight for herself and speak to the other members of the Night’s Watch should she please.

Sansa retired early, with Brienne and Sandor in tow. They walked to her private solar before anyone spoke. Sansa offered each a cup of wine, but only Sandor accepted.

Brienne was first to deliver her update, “I spoke briefly to Tyrion and Jaime. It is as you expected, she plied them for information – or rather charmed them, to hear Tyrion tell it – though both said they were as unspecific as they could be without acting cagey.”

Sansa nodded, “She asked only about the South and Westerlands?”

Brienne nodded, “Correct. She did not ask about the North, which is a relief to me.”

“Thank you, Brienne. Sandor? Any concerns?”

“We’re as prepared as we can be, given the timeframe. A moon’s worth of provisions even though Theon assured me it will take only three sennights. Stable hands will wake to saddle, feed, and water the horses an hour before dawn. I’ve selected six guards to accompany us, they have been briefed. That should be enough men given you have myself, the Kingslayer, Lady Brienne, Theon, your brother, and Ser Jorah… and only three people to protect… er, two? I suppose Daenerys’ dragons will swoop in should their _mother_ be threatened, I just hope they know friend from foe.”

Sansa smiled, “I’m sure that will be more than adequate, after all Lord Tyrion and I have proven rather hard to kill, against all odds… I commend you on seeing to all the preparations so quickly.”

Sandor shrugged, “Podrick and Theon deserve your thanks. They’re strange ones, but they do as they’re told, I’ll give ‘em that.”

Brienne couldn’t help but snort, “Podrick does _more_ than he’s told. I had to threaten his life four times before he stopped offering to untie my greaves for me.”

The pair bowed their exits, leaving Sansa to what would certainly be many more hours of work. Secretly, she welcomed the distraction – she would have no need to wander the castle grounds this evening, and her ghosts would find no purchase in her thoughts.


	30. Night Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa have more alone time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a super eventful chapter, but shows the relationship developing between our two main characters.

**Sandor**

At the frosty dawn of the next day they left Winterfell for Castle Black, departing through the North Gate. The group included Sansa, Jon, Theon, Sandor, Tyrion, Jaime, Brienne, Podrick, Daenerys, and Jorah – along with six guards. They rode Garrons, horses bred for long travel in wintry conditions. A few dozen of the sturdy mounts had been gifted to Winterfell by the Free Folk after the Battle for the North. Only Sandor rode his personal horse, Stranger, a black destrier. Jon had advised against it, but as they’d be keeping to the Kingsroad, and the snows were not yet deep, Sandor felt confident that Stranger would be up to task. Daenerys’ dragons flew overhead and out of sight, making Sandor wonder how they knew which direction to head.

It was the fifth night of their trip when Sandor had volunteered to take the first watch. In the preceding nights he had trouble falling asleep after supper, as the others seemed to do easily. It made him feel pathetic to admit it, but his years on the Quiet Isle and weeks at Winterfell had spoiled him so that now sleeping on the hard ground – even over a bedroll and furs – wasn’t as easy as it once was. As a young soldier on campaigns he had often slept on little more than a woolen blanket, sometimes less, but those days were long past, along with his youth.

The sleepy guard he relieved barely put up an argument as he thanked Sandor with heavy eyes. Sandor sat himself against the guard post tree, wineskin in hand, gazing up at the dancing branches of the mammoth northern trees. He pondered how old the trees were. _Surely even the youngest must have seen a few hundred years. Have the oldest been here since the days of Bran the Builder? Or even longer?_

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes into his watch, but he was already regretting his decision to volunteer: lying awake in the shelter of a tent was surely better than sitting outside in the biting winds. As he cursed his stupidity, he heard a rustling in one of the far tents. With no campfires burning but the small one in front of him, his eyes struggled to discern the source of the noise in the distance. He quietly crawled around his fire and, after a few moments, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He spotted the very recognizable shape of one Sansa Stark, bundled up as she’d been on her late nights wandering Winterfell. Sandor assumed she was going to relieve herself, but was irked that she hadn’t roused Brienne, her tentmate, to join her. Though they’d seen no signs of trouble thus far, it wasn’t impossible that a group of bandits or Bolton loyalists were hiding just out of sight, waiting for the opportune moment to kill or capture the unprotected Queen.

Sandor struggled with what to do: _Should I follow her to make sure she’s safe? But she won’t take kindly to me seeing her squatting behind a bush, skirts raised._ He decided to wait three minutes then follow her if she’d not yet returned. In the meantime he rose and walked a few paces in her direction. _Better be close enough to do something if I hear her scream._

But she didn’t scream, and also didn’t return to the tent. Sandor sighed a cloud of air out of his nostrils and walked past the tents, in the direction she had headed. He took care to step lightly; it wouldn’t do to have one of his companions run out into the darkness, sword drawn. He stopped several yards past the last tent to look and listen for signs of the little bird. Hearing none, he advanced a few more paces and stopped again. His heart started to race. _Could she have already been carried off by someone?_ Even taking care of her bodily needs she should be making _some_ noise.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally heard crunching footsteps to his left. He turned in that direction and heard another unidentifiable noise, like the thud a horn of ale makes when slammed on a table. He continued his quiet approach, considering the possibility that it was _not_ Sansa making the noise. Eventually he was close enough to see the figure and breathed a sigh of relief to see it was indeed her, and that she was alone. She didn’t see him, so he stood for a few minutes to watch what she was doing. She raised her right arm, dagger in hand, taking aim at a tree about ten yards in front of her. She threw the dagger and it stuck in the tree trunk at about eye level. She walked carefully to her target, wriggled out the dagger, and returned to her original spot. This repeated three times, though it was hard to tell from Sandor’s vantage point how close together her hits were landing. Shifting his weight to his left leg, he immediately heard a twig break underfoot.

_Fuck!_

Sansa instantly spun around wide-eyed in his direction and Sandor threw up his arms, whisper-shouting “It’s me, little bird!” Sandor was glad her dagger was buried in the trunk at that moment, lest he might have found himself tacked to the tree behind him.

After her fright subsided Sansa finally spoke, “What are you doing here?!”

“I was on first watch; I saw you walk into the woods, _unguarded_ , and followed when you didn’t return after a few minutes.”

“Why are you on watch duty? That’s the guards’ jobs.”

“More importantly, _my lady_ , why are _you_ out here? What did that tree do to you?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “I can’t sleep.”

“Mmmm, seems you never can.” He studied her a moment, looking for a change in her expression. There was none. “Well I can sympathize, never been much of a sleeper, myself.”

“I used to be a great sleeper.”

Sandor snorted, “Aye, I remember. Early to bed and late to rise.”

“Doesn’t mean I was _sleeping_ , just trying to avoid the _royal family,_ ” Sansa frowned.

Sandor was still uncomfortable talking about their shared time in King’s Landing. “Come on, it’s too dangerous out here for little birds.”

Sansa reluctantly followed him, but when he stopped in front of her tent, she kept walking to the nearly extinguished fire at his guard post. She sat down against the tree and prodded the glowing logs to stoke the flames. After a moment Sandor joined her, grunting a bit as he lowered himself to the ground, leaving a hand’s width between them. 

“The cold is harsh on bones; you’re not used to it,” Sansa stated matter-of-factly.

“ _Age_ is harsh on bones.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Old enough”

“How old _are_ you?”

“How old do you think I am?”

She thought a moment, “five and thirty?”

Sandor huffed in mock insult, “Guess I look older than I am. I’m one and thirty, girl... How old are you?”

“How old do _you_ think I am?”

_You turned twenty in January._

Sandor snorted, “Oh no! I’m not _that_ dumb! I once saw Cersei have a fair worker thrown in the Black Cells for guessing she was six and twenty when she was only four and twenty.”

This time it was Sansa who let out a chuckle. _Music to my ears._

“I’m twenty, Sandor, and I’d not have thrown you into our cells even if you’d guessed me at _five_ and twenty,” she said playfully.

“Good to know.”

“…I’d have thrown you over the Wall; a prisoner is just a pair of idle hands and a hungry mouth.”

“Hah! I admire your practicality, _your grace_.”

For a moment they sat in comfortable silence, listening to the crackling of the small fire.

“When is your nameday, Sandor?”

He scowled at her, “If I tell you that, you’ll be the only living person to know, so I’ll know who to _choke_ if anyone ever throws me a feast, bakes me a pie, or says _‘Happy Nameday, Sandor!’_ ” He mocked the foolishly happy tone the imaginary well-wisher would use.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she laughed.

“I doubt it, I know how you women love to _plan_ celebrations for every little occasion.”

“Not this woman! I’ve got enough to keep me busy. Besides… I’ve kept your other secret...” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, gauging his reaction.

He sighed, “Aye, I know you did little bird… My nameday is August the 10th.”

Sansa turned to look at him, and the look of panic on her face startled him, “What?!” He asked.

“That’s less than two moons away! Hardly enough time to plan a decent feast!” Her face broke into a grin by the time she finished the jape.

“You think that’s funny, do you? Alright then, when’s your nameday?”

_January the 9 th, two days after they killed your father; the day Joffrey made you look at his rotting head._

She seemed to be thinking the same thing, as her smile dissolved, and her blank face returned. 

_Idiot!_

“It’s January the 9th, though I prefer it not be acknowledged.”

This time the silence that descended could _not_ be described as comfortable. Desperate to introduce a new topic, but with so many topics seemingly off limits for Sansa, Sandor finally cleared his throat and spoke, trying to sound casual, “So, you’ve been to the Wall before…”

“Yes, to Castle Black, specifically.”

“Well, what did you think of the place?”

“Other than cold?” He nodded. “It’s rather bleak, I admit, though there is something rather pleasing about it, the Wall specifically.”

“I can’t imagine anything pleasing about a giant block of ice.”

She forced a smile, “It’s being atop the Wall, not looking upon it… Being so high up, seeing for miles around, it does give one a sense of… _perspective._ ”

“Aye? How’s that?”

“It’s nice to be reminded how small each of us is. It’s so easy to feel like our lives, our troubles, are the most significant things in the entire world… like everything we do or say has some great impact on the very fate of mankind. But up there, atop that massive structure, you realize that each of us is no more or less important than… than an earthworm. We’re born, we die, but life never stops _moving._ It’s a very… freeing feeling.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Sansa tried to retract some of her wistfulness, “I guess I sound rather grim.”

“You don’t sound grim. It actually sounds… nice.”

 _What a conversationalist you are! It sounds ‘nice’?_ He forced himself to say more, “Sounds like we should make every puffed-up Lord who thinks his shite doesn’t stink take a pilgrimage to the Wall. They’re the ones need perspective, not you.”

“You seem to forget I was once a ‘puffed up’ lady,” Sansa yawned.

“No, you just wanted to be.”

“Hah! When did you get so wise, Sandor Clegane?”

“Not wise, just honest.”

“Maybe they’re the same thing.” She yawned again and stretched her slender arms high up over her head. In her movement Sandor caught a whiff of her scent: sweat and pine needles and lavender. The pine needles and lavender were new, he didn’t recall her smelling that way in King’s Landing, but the underlying smell of her sweat – her _skin_ – was so familiar. Sandor once heard that a man’s memory for scent is stronger than his memory for sights or sounds. He always thought it horseshit, but in breathing in her aroma now he knew it to be true. He was instantly transported back in time to their shared moments in King’s Landing – when she clung to his chest atop his horse after he saved her from a gang of rapers; when he covered her with his tunic after the Imp ordered her public beating to be ceased; the countless times he leaned in to spit hateful words in her face, hoping to silence her incessant chirping. 

_The night of the Blackwater, when you held a dagger to her throat and demanded a song._

Realization hit him like a lightning bolt: _every_ one of those times, she was in complete _terror_. Even that night of the Blackwater, while she sang him a sweet song and cradled his cheek, he knew she was trying to comfort him, but could still hear her heart pounding out of her chest.

_How does she not associate me with horror, whether or not I was the inflictor or the savior?_

_Because it wasn’t just when she was with you. It was every second she was in that shite hole of a city. The entire time she lived there, every_ second _of it was in fear. It was probably no better in the Vale with Littlefucker and then in Winterfell with the Boltons._

Sandor did a quick calculation in his mind. The timeline of events after she fled King’s Landing wasn’t precisely clear, but he estimated that she spent nearly three years as some form of _captive_ – though with prettier titles.

_Three years of pain, three years of fear, three years of Gods know what, and now not one year later she sits before me the Queen in the bloody North._

He realized he’d been staring at her in awe, though luckily her eyes were closed as she rested her head back against the tree.

 _What were we talking about? Oh yes, the Wall._ “So you, Theon, Jaime, and Brienne all were at the Wall together?”

Her eyes opened but did not meet his, “Yes, and Podrick.” Her mouth was straight as she answered.

 _Don’t ask another question, you’re going to push her too far._ But as usual, he couldn't stop himself, “What’s with you and the squid anyway? Don’t see why you have reason to be kind to him, or reason not to kill him, for that matter.”

She was silent for some moments.

_You fucking oaf, couldn’t keep your big trap shut, could you?_

Surprisingly, she answered, still in a flat tone, “I have many reasons to hate him, many reasons to kill him… But I also have many reasons to be grateful to him…” She sighed, “He did not kill my little brothers, Sandor. They are out there, somewhere… Or not. But if they’re dead, it was not by his hand.”

He couldn’t hide the doubt in his eyes, but he knew better than to ask any more questions. He was tempted to tell her she was stupid for believing whatever story the Greyjoy twat fed her. But that was the old Sansa… or rather, the _young_ Sansa. _This_ Sansa, sitting beside him against a tree, was no fool. This Sansa would not hesitate to kill a man if she even _suspected_ he’d killed a member of her family. After his earlier realization that she wasn’t crazy for trusting the Kingslayer and the Imp, he decided to keep his mouth shut about Theon.


	31. The Mad Ginger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new member joins the traveling party. 
> 
> Sandor feels jealous.

**Sandor**

A sennight into their travel, the Wildling Lord of the Dreadfort – Tormund Gianstbane, met their party on the Kingsroad just west of the Dreadfort. Sandor had heard passing comments and descriptions of the man but was unprepared for the man he met.

Tormund was dressed in several layers of white and gray furs, including boots made of fur. His hair and beard were bright red and completely unkempt. _Fucking gingers._ At his waist hung a battle axe on the right and two daggers on the left – only visible because the man’s coat was open in the front as if he was completely unbothered by the cold. The man was large and broad shouldered, though not as big as Sandor.

As he rode to meet the group his eyes lit up with excitement and warmth. He dismounted and headed straight to Jon, who blushed as he dismounted and was immediately lifted up by the Wildling in a tight bear hug. Tormund kissed the top of Jon’s head, “Lord Crow! How come you don’t come visit me in my fancy castle? It’s better than that shite hole you live in! There are _women_ there, for one thing!”

“I’ve been busy, Lord Tormund, in case you hadn’t heard…”

“None of that _Lord_ talk, makes me feel like a bloody kneeler.”

Tormund then turned his attention to the little bird who had also dismounted. Tormund kissed both her hands, lips lingering a bit too long for Sandor’s comfort, “Lady Crow! You don’t visit me either, Val misses you – everyone asks when the red wolf will grace us with her presence!”

“I’ve been busy as well, Tormund. I should hope you’ve been similarly occupied.”

Tormund waved a hand at her, “I let others handle all the hard work, I just sit back and enjoy the fruits of their labors! Tell me, have you received all my letters? You so rarely respond!”

Sansa blushed, “I’ve received them all, Tormund, thank you for your faithful correspondence.”

Tormund nodded, “Did you understand my meaning, Red Wolf? I was afraid it was too subtle.”

Sansa’s face now matched her hair, “Subtle is not the word I’d use to describe them, fear not.”

“Good! The part about my snake looking for a warm place to hibernate for the winter—”

Sansa raised her hand, mortified, “I get it! No need to explain… _please!”_

_This fucker will be dead by my blade before this day is through._

Tormund thankfully changed the subject, “So tell me, how goes Winterfell? Still a crumbling mess?”

“We are doing well, thank you for asking. The rebuilding is progressing quickly, our numbers are growing steadily, and thanks to this one,” Sansa pointed at Sandor, “Our supply shipments are no longer being intercepted.”

Upon seeing Sandor on his warhorse the Wildling’s eyes went wide in apparent admiration, “Where did you find such a magnificent creature?” he asked Sansa.

“The horse came with the man,” Tyrion japed.

Sandor dismounted as the Wildling seemed to expect. He gripped Sandor’s forearm tightly in greeting.

“Red Wolf must have traveled far and wide to find a warrior such as yourself!”

“Only to her own gates.”

“Well then luck is on her side… Tell me, when did the fire kiss you?”

Sandor scowled but luckily Jaime, seemingly out of pity, drew away Tormund’s attention, “You greet a stranger before your old friends?”

“Don’t worry pretty knight, I haven’t forgotten about you!” Tormund lifted Jaime in a bear hug as he’d done to Jon, then moved to kiss Brienne’s hands but she pulled them back too quickly. “Still shy around me, my big beauty?”

_Beauty?_

“It’s alright, we’ll have plenty of time to get to know one another more intimately on our trip,” Tormund’s mouth was a devilish grin.

Finally noticing Tyrion, Tormund’s eyes went wide again, “You caught a grumpkin!”

Sandor could not contain his snort, earning a scolding look from Sansa. To Tyrion’s credit he played along, “Believe me friend, if I could grant wishes I’d have granted my own long ago and gotten myself a new face and body to go with it.”

Jaime cleared his throat, “Tormund Gianstbane, meet Lord Tyrion Lannister, my younger brother.”

Tormund’s eyes roved between the two siblings, seemingly trying to reconcile the tall handsome knight with his short, _unhandsome_ brother.

Sansa made the final introduction, “Tormund, if you can behave yourself for a moment, I’d like to introduce you to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen. As Jon has informed you, she has generously traveled here with her dragons and her sworn shield, Ser Jorah, to assess the threat in the north and see how she might lend her support.”

Tormund approached Daenerys, who did not dismount. Sandor was smugly pleased that he seemed un-captivated by her beauty. He did offer a slight bow as he kissed her offered hand, “As my lady’s been kissed by fire, it would seem you’ve been kissed by ice.”

Daenerys maintained her smile though it did not reach her eyes, “On the contrary, Lord Tormund, it is fire that flows in my veins…”

\-------------------------------------------------

Throughout the journey Sandor frequently found himself unintentionally studying Sansa the way an apprentice might watch his mentor. Less than midway through their journey he had already identified some patterns. Her face was nearly always impassive, seemingly unreadable to most of their traveling companions, but decades of training had taught Sandor to look for subtle clues that would betray his opponents’ emotions and intentions. He subconsciously used this skill on Sansa. He came to know how certain topics – and certain _people –_ affected her.

Around Daenerys and Jon she was hyper-aware. He could tell by the way her eyes became more alert, her nostrils slightly flared, and her breathing accelerated.

The only time she ever looked even mildly relaxed was when alone with either Brienne or Theon. At those times the furrow in her brow would disappear, her lips would be less pursed, and her shoulders would drop slightly.

The only people to make her laugh or even smile were Tormund, Tyrion, and Jaime – and she usually did so reluctantly, as if letting her mask slip off would leave her vulnerable. Though these men amused her, she still wasn’t as relaxed around them as she was with Brienne and Theon.

With the few guards that accompanied them she was all business, always measured and firm. It gave Sandor a bit of pride to observe the way _they_ acted around _her:_ always respectful, but with a definite trace of fear, even though he’d never heard her speak harshly to them.

With Sandor himself she was warm enough, though sometimes pensive, like there was something she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Other times he would look up to find her studying _him_ the same way he often studied her. It made him uneasy. He would suddenly feel compelled to cover his scars with his hair, even though he knew it wasn’t his scars that she was surveying. He felt like she was trying to see into his mind, into his heart – to uncover all his motives and secrets.

Similarly, certain subjects would elicit a subtle shift in her demeanor. She seemed to enjoy listening to Tyrion and even Daenerys talk about their lives in Essos: Daenerys, tales of conquest, Tyrion, tales of merriment (it seemed the dwarf’s exile was more of a holiday). She also liked learning about Tyrion and Jaime’s childhood, until Cersei made an appearance in one of their stories. When Jon reminisced about their family, Sansa was comfortable enough speaking about her mother, father, Arya, and Robb, but shut down when the childhood antics of Bran or Rickon were described.

Sometimes the guards would join the discussion, speaking fondly of their wives or children. On one such occasion Daenerys shared her own story of being married to Khal Drogo, then sacrificing her newborn son in a failed attempt to save her husband. It was clear that the memory was unpleasant, but she seemed to have accepted the entire affair as something that was necessary for her dragons to be born and for her to be _re-_ born as the Dragon Queen. Even Sandor was enraptured by the tale, secretly envious of Daenerys’ imperviousness to fire, so no one noticed when Sansa slipped away into her tent. Everyone retired fairly early, as usual, exhausted from a long day in the saddle. That night Sandor took first watch and saw Theon sneak quietly into Sansa’s tent. Had it been any other man Sandor would have been wracked with jealousy, but in the time since Sandor first arrived in Winterfell, it was obvious that, whatever Theon and Sansa’s relation was, it was not one of romance or lust. If he had to put it into words, he’d have said they were each other’s caretakers, with an uncanny ability to sense and respond to the other’s needs without speaking a word.

Daenerys and Sansa were amicable enough, though the tension between them was palpable. To his credit, Jorah was warm toward Sansa – as Sansa’s people were toward Daenerys – that is, except for Sandor and Theon, but “warm” had never been used to describe either of them. 

Each day after they’d stopped to make camp, Jaime and Sansa would venture away from the group to train. They’d never wander out sight, but far enough to give them some privacy. Jaime trained Sansa with her dagger, but after a few sessions Sandor noted that they emphasized _defense_ rather than offense. Jaime of course taught her basic strikes, practicing jabs at the places on the body that would do the most damage, but more time was spent practicing methods for disarming an assailant or freeing herself of choke holds and headlocks. He didn’t bother teaching her swordplay but did have her practice rushing him while he had his sword drawn. Sandor remembered those lessons from his own days as a squire: in the event you’re facing an opponent with a sword while you have none, you must close the gap rather than creating distance. A sword is near useless in close range, and by catching your opponent off-guard you can swiftly rush them, stab them with your dagger and watch them fall over dead, still gripping their sword – though quickness is key in such a maneuver, and hesitation means death.

During these training sessions Sandor tried to busy himself, but there was little to do as the guards and Podrick took care of gathering firewood, setting up the tents, tending the horses, and preparing the meal. More often than not Sandor would sit on a rock or log, sharpening his sword or carving a piece of wood with his dagger, though his eyes frequently drifted up to the pair in the distance. Jaime never looked anything but proper with his lady, in tone and demeanor, but whenever his arms wrapped around her as he played the part of assailant, or he touched one of her legs to correct her stance, Sandor would feel a low rumble escape his throat involuntarily. Too many times he was caught glaring at the pair; he’d look up to find Theon looking back with a blank stare, Daenerys or Brienne with a knowing smirk, Jon with a threatening scowl, Tormund or Tyrion with amusement, or Jorah Mormont with – compassion? Sandor’s response was always the same, “Have I got something on my face?” That would break the eye contact, but the damage was done – he’d already been caught staring resentfully at his _queen_ and her _golden knight_.


	32. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Sandor/Sansa bonding. :)

**Sandor**

It had become something of a habit for Sansa and Sandor to spend time together each night. Sandor continued to take the first watch shift, and Sansa would wander out of her tent about twenty minutes after everyone had retired. Sometimes they would venture several yards into the forest so she could practice her dagger throwing. Sandor had to admit she was quite good, able to hit within only a few inches of the same mark each time, even in the darkness of night.

Other nights they simply sat by the small fire and talked. Oddly it was Sandor who did most of the talking. Sansa seemed to have never-ending curiosity about his time on the Quiet Isle, his time with Arya, and even his time in King’s Landing before and after her arrival there. She laughed when he spoke of the day he _accidentally_ broke Meryn Trant’s sword arm in the training yard, though he couldn’t bring himself to admit the reason was because of a lewd comment Trant had to say about the King’s betrothed _._

When she asked about his childhood his instinct was to shut down, but more often than not he found he had answered her questions unwittingly. She had a way of soliciting information by phrasing the questions in a casual way, as if she already knew the answer. She would never say “tell me about your sister”, but when he spoke of being a young boy playing with sticks and pretending they were swords she would say, “Let me guess, you were the brave knight and your sister was the fair maiden you had to rescue.” Before he could stop himself, he would nod, and Sansa would be onto the next subject before he had a chance to be embarrassed by his involuntary admission.

Sansa herself shared little of her past though sometimes spoke of happy memories from her childhood. She told him how Robb, Jon, and Theon had to scare off a few lust-filled squires who’d try to get too familiar with Ned Stark’s prized red rose. She seemed to never realize the young men had impure thoughts about her until after they showed up with black eyes or busted lips, and Sandor couldn’t help but think of how she still had that effect on men – and was probably only slightly less naïve about it. She blushed when she told him about the time her brothers tracked her down halfway to Castle Cerwyn sharing a horse with a traveling minstrel. She was only two and ten, and the young man had said he was going to take her to a mummer’s show in the port city of White Harbor. She thought nothing of it, only later realizing he had less innocent intentions in mind.

Still blushing she anticipated his comment, “I know, I was a stupid little bird.”

Sandor threw up his hands in supplication, “You said it, not me!”

In a futile attempt to defend her gullibility she shared a story about a group of young washerwomen who stole Jon’s clothes while he was bathing in the river. He was four and ten but had a comely face and the musculature of a grown man, if not the height. Sandor laughed as Sansa described Jon’s beet red face as he walked back through the gate holding a leafy branch at his groin and another at his backside.

Sansa’s smile lost some of its warmth as a realization dawned on her, “Jon and I were the _least_ worldly of all our siblings. You could outsmart me at four and ten more easily than Rickon at four, and yet here the two of us are… and they’re all…”, she shrugged, “dead, I suppose.”

Sandor didn’t want to lie and tell her they could still be alive, so instead he gently patted her hand. When she placed her other hand on top and laced her fingers into his it made his chest hurt. She shut her eyes and seemed content to steal the warmth from his hand, so he closed his eyes and let her. After a few minutes though, he could no longer bear the intensity of the emotion that she was likely oblivious to, just as she’d been oblivious to all the young boys who were infatuated with her in her youth.

He had to break the silence, “My lady, I know Brienne and Jaime came back early because they found Tyrion. If you’d permit my absence, I could go back out and search for your siblings myself. If Arya is hiding somewhere, she might reveal herself to me but not to Brienne, and certainly not to the Kingslayer…”

Sansa opened her eyes and turned her head to face him. With only a foot of space between them the weight of her stare was infinitely heavier than the weight of her hand, and he found himself looking down to his lap like a coward, though he could tell her eyes were still on him. “Thank you, Sandor, but I think now our resources are better spent preparing for the battle and feeding our people. I hope that by now word of my return to Winterfell has reached any of my surviving siblings. If they’ve managed to survive this long, perhaps that means they have the capability and resource to return home. I know it makes me sound cold, but—”

“Not cold, I understand. It’s torture to wait for something, to expect something, that may never come. No one, including your siblings, would blame you for moving on with your life. It doesn’t mean you’re giving up hope.”

“I’d never give up hope. I’ve tried to and failed. Optimism is just another sign of my naivety, I suppose.”

“No, little bird, it’s a sign of your heart. Take it from someone who’s been a miserable pessimist for all of his life: living that way doesn’t prevent disappointment, it only guarantees its presence in every waking thought.”

“Not all your life.”

“Hmm?”

“You weren’t always a miserable pessimist. You were once a little boy who dreamed of being a Knight, of saving maidens and princesses.”

Sandor’s instinct was to deny that he was ever so silly, but there was no use denying anything to her. It sometimes felt like she knew him better than he knew himself, though how she’d gained such insight he would never know. Instead he sighed, “Aye, but that was a long time ago, before…”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence and couldn’t. With a sigh of her own she lowered her head to lean it on Sandor’s shoulder, and spoke her next words in a whisper, as if afraid the trees were listening, “I hate him, you know. I wish he were alive so I could hurt him, so I could kill him, so I could make him beg your forgiveness. If I told you the things I’d like to do to him, you’d think me mad… and maybe I am.”

Sandor was stunned. He had seen the little bird execute men. He knew that sometime between King’s Landing and here she learned how to kill, but he never imagined her relishing the act as Sandor himself had once done. As she confessed her dark desires for vengeance on his behalf, Sandor realized it had been a long time since he felt similarly compelled.

“Little bird… I used to think hate was as good a thing to live on as anything, but I was wrong. I’ve twelve years on you, trust me, hate will eat you from the inside out. You want vengeance, take it, but don’t let it be the only thing you care about.”

She was silent some moments before asking, “So what do you care about now, now that he’s dead, now that you don’t have vengeance to think about?”

 _What **do** I care about now? _The answer was more obvious than he’d expected, “Atonement.”

She looked up at him slowly, but he did not meet her eyes, he felt her breath on his ear as she practically whispered, “Sandor?”

The hairs on his neck rose, “Yes?”

“I’m glad you came to Winterfell.”

She stood and was halfway to her tent before he could respond or even bid her goodnight, so he whispered it to the trees, “Goodnight, little bird.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

_Sansa tries to run but the snow is like quicksand. Her legs and lungs are burning from the exertion, her face is numb from the cold. Every time she dares to look back he is closer, even though he is walking slowly while she runs as fast as she can. Depending on how heavy the snow is falling, sometimes she can make out his entire form, but other times she only sees his eyes, glowing blue beacons in the night._

Sansa woke with a start, her heart still racing. She knew she’d had this dream before but wasn’t sure how many times. They started sometime after her party departed Winterfell for Castle Black. The mysterious man with the glowing blue eyes had gradually supplanted Ramsay, Petyr, and Joffrey as the uninvited guest in her dreams. 


	33. A Speck of Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's party arrives at their destination. Friends are reunited.

**Sandor**

Upon approaching the outside walls of Castle Black, the first person to greet Sansa’s party was no person at all, but a beast that stood nearly as tall as Sansa herself. From a distance its white fur blended in with the snow but for a pair of red eyes and a black nose. Jon whistled and Sansa shouted “Ghost!” simultaneously. The horses stirred, so Sansa handed her reigns to Theon and jumped down from her horse, walking toward the wolf as quickly as the deep snow allowed. If it weren’t for Jon’s smile as he saw his sister running toward his _pet_ , Sandor may have jumped down and placed himself between Sansa and the wolf, though he was secretly glad he didn’t need to: few men or creatures made Sandor feel this small _._

The direwolf bounded through the snow like it wasn’t there. He jumped on Sansa, knocking her backward and licking her face. The beast paid no mind to its master, clearly more interested in having a reunion with Sansa. “I missed you last time, boy! You’ve gotten so BIG!” Sandor looked at the group around them. A few of the guards were vigilant, hands on pommels, but most were smiling or laughing at the display before them. Tyrion was the only one to look downright frightened, no doubt wondering what it would be like to spend the next few days with a beast that stood taller than him.

Some of the horses were whinnying and stomping their hooves, so Jon finally sent the wolf away, “Alright, boy, those are enough kisses for now. Go on before you make our horses bolt!” With a flick of his wrist the wolf ran to their right and disappeared into a crop of pine trees.

Turning, Jon addressed Daenerys, “Your grace, let me be the first to welcome you to Castle Black.”

“My thanks, Lord Commander, it is an honor to finally see this historic fortress. I look forward to meeting your brothers, those noble protectors of the realm.” Her words were gracious, but she eyed the _castle_ before her as if disappointed by its size or plainness.

Sensing her disillusionment Sansa explained, “Us northerners must value utility over aesthetics, your grace. I’m sure this isn’t the luxury you’re accustomed to, but I assure you you’ll be quite comfortable and safe here, as Lady Brienne and I were when living here for over a month.” Sandor lowered his head to hide his smirk and noticed Jaime do the same. Both were fully aware of the subtle _slight_ in Sansa’s words: _I lived here a month without complaint, you can survive a few nights._ The Dragon Queen herself perceived no insult, and if anything was embarrassed that her face had betrayed her thoughts.

Upon entering the gates some familiar faces appeared: Beric and Thoros eyed Sandor, eager to reunite with their former traveling partner while waiting for the formalities to be exchanged.

Jon helped Daenerys from her horse and led her politely by the arm to a group of men standing proudly in the center of the large courtyard. Sansa followed a few paces behind, hands clasped behind her back. Podrick and the guards were greeted by a few stewards who led them and the horses to the stables. Tormund promptly wandered off without pretext, greeting with laughter some of the Night’s Watch, who looked like they probably had been Wildlings themselves.

The rest of the group dismounted but stood around at a loss for what to do or say, so instead they just listened. Jon began the introductions, “Queen Daenerys Targaryen, may I introduce to you our First Ranger Eddison Tollett, First Builder Othell Yarwyck, Lord Steward Bowen Marsh, and Maester Samwell Tarly.”

The men bowed deeply, and Bowen stepped forward to address the queen, “Your grace, on behalf of my fellow officers we are humbled to meet you and honored to host you for the duration of your stay.”

Daenerys bowed her head slightly, “The honor is mine, my lords. I look forward to meeting each of you more fully to learn about the operations of the Night’s Watch and how the crown may assist you in your noble cause.”

_Doesn’t have the crown yet, and already offering its assistance?_

Bowen continued, “That is most generous, your grace. Every minute of your time will be most appreciated. Now I’m sure you’re tired from your journey,” he motioned over a young steward, “Randall here will see you to your—”

Just then a deafening shriek pierced the afternoon sky. The three, winged beasts were circling over the castle about a hundred yards above, as Sandor estimated. Everyone in the courtyard instinctively ducked his or her head, except for Daenerys and Jorah. On the quiet journey north Sandor had nearly forgotten they were somewhere, _up there_ , following their _mother_.

Daenerys smiled proudly, “I apologize for the alarm; they only mean to see that I am safe. I assure you they will cause no harm here. They will remain outside your walls and are trained not to attack any person or horse unless commanded to do so.”

Everyone looked relieved, but suddenly Sansa and Jon turned to each other and simultaneously shouted, “Ghost!” Jon ran toward the stables then mounted one of the horses and flew out through the gate they had just entered. Daenerys seemed unconcerned, though whether it was because she knew the dragons would not harm the direwolf, or because she did not care, Sandor could not say.

“You were saying, Lord Marsh,” she beamed at the aging steward, “someone will escort my shield and I to our quarters?”

As Daenerys and Jorah were led away, Sansa stepped forward and addressed the officers who were still staring at the sky, “My Lords, it is a pleasure to see you again. I am grateful for your hospitality toward myself and my companions.” Turning to Maester Tarly she continued, “Sam, it appears congratulations are in order. I can think of no better man for the position, except of course your predecessor, Maester Aemon. I must offer my condolences to you all. In the brief time I knew him he proved to be wise and kind, though I am certain Maester Tarly will continue his legacy of excellence.”

The officers returned her greeting warmly, though continued glancing toward the sky with unease. They excused themselves with promises to continue their conversation at the feast to be held that night, in honor of Daenerys and Sansa.

_Leaving to change their breeches, I’d bet._

Finally the formalities were concluded, and Sansa returned to her party just as Beric and Thoros approached. They each bowed slightly at her but grinned widely at Sandor and clamped arms with him in cordial greeting. Sandor couldn’t help but return a small smile of his own.

The pair then moved to greet the rest of Sansa’ party and Sandor suddenly remembered that Ser Beric had been loyal to Ned Stark at the time Jaime Lannister arrested the late lord. Beric was the man charged by Stark with finding and killing Sandor’s rabid brother, Gregor Clegane. Gregor was unpopular, to be sure, but he was still a Lannister man – Lord Tywin’s walking, breathing, killing machine. A tense silence filled the air between the Lannister brothers and Beric and Thoros. Tyrion eventually released the pressure with some jape, but Sandor heard none of it. His undivided attention had been drawn to Sansa, standing only a few yards away, and the swarm of _brothers in black_ who had surrounded her. The men were sputtering out their best attempts at courtesy while blushing furiously:

> “So wonderful to see you again…”
> 
> “…gladdened to hear of your triumph…”
> 
> “…m’lady—I mean _your grace_!”
> 
> “…if I can do anything to make your stay more pleasant…”

_Hmpf, I know exactly how he’d like to make her stay more pleasant..._

Sansa was accepting their words graciously and seemed to recognize some of them from her previous time here. Those she addressed by name while others introduced themselves to her, fumbling over the syllables of their own name as they withered under her beauty and grace. Sansa had donned her solemn mask but allowed a polite smile to breach it.

Sandor felt more than a little uneasy about the attention being showered on Sansa by the hoard of men. _Men that were thieves and rapers and murderers before coming here._ Sandor just hoped that Jon Snow had enough authority over his men that no harm would be done against his sister or Daenerys.

 _I bet even Brienne looks as tasty as a summer peach to these miscreants._ He chanced a glance at the big woman who met his eyes with her own look of concern, though he doubted it was for her own _virtue;_ she, like Sandor, was discomfited by the number of lowly men around her queen.

Sandor finally could bear no more. He approached Sansa, pushing aside some of the men who at first turned to look at him with impertinence before cowering when they saw his massive height and fearsome scars. He touched Sansa’s left elbow lightly, “Your grace, you too must be weary from our journey. Allow me to escort you to your quarters.”

A flicker of anger dashed in her eyes before she accepted his offer. He ignored it, waving over a pock-marked steward who seemed to be anxiously waiting to be called into the service of the beautiful Queen in the North. Sansa placed her hand in the crook of Sandor’s arm, allowing him to escort her, behind the steward, to the door of her humble guest quarters. Sansa dismissed the boy before speaking to Sandor with a frosty tone, “Should I need your assistance or your protection, Clegane, I’ll ask for it.”

She entered the room and shut the door behind her, leaving Sandor staring at the wooden floor planks like a scolded child. After a few seconds his shame turned to anger. _Fine! Next time I’ll let a couple dozen men drool all over you. Mayhap you like the attention!_

Sandor stomped off, hoping she could hear his heavy footfalls through the door. He spotted Beric and Thoros where he’d left them, still speaking with Jaime and Tyrion. Sandor approached and without pause he growled, “Come on, let’s see the top of this _Wall_ before the bloody corpses knock it down.”

\--------------------------------------------------

Sandor of course had _seen_ the Wall upon their arrival at the castle, but much like one cannot appreciate the vastness of the ocean when standing on the shore, Sandor couldn’t take measure of the massive structure. He recalled hearing over the years that the Wall stood 700 feet tall but looking up at it from the ground it could have just as easily been 2,000 feet, or merely 300. He had no sense of scale, other than the buildings and towers of the castle, which were poor comparisons to the magnitude of the Wall.

But, after a painfully slow ascent in a large cage operated by a complex series of pulleys, gears, and counterweights, they reached the top, and Sandor was breathless. His companions appeared equally awed, even though most had stood here before.

Suddenly, all of Sansa’s words from a fortnight ago came flooding into his mind, and he now fully understood their meaning. She had described her experience on the Wall as being made to feel as insignificant as an earthworm, but to Sandor even an earthworm was bigger than he: he was but a speck of dust.

His legs and arms were boneless, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d collapse into a puddle of blood-red jelly. He turned in all directions, and marveled at the fact that, with a powerful enough periscope, he’d be able to see all the way to Dorne, to spy on the exotic courtesans bringing princes to their knees.

He wasn’t the Hound up here. He wasn’t even Sandor Clegane, and that made him feel… _Free_.

He realized the other men were staring at him, smiling. They knew exactly what he was feeling, each having had the experience at some point for themselves.

If it weren’t so cold and windy Sandor could have spent the rest of his days up there. _Let the dead come, at least I’ll die content for the first time in my pathetic life._

Sensing his companions’ restlessness, he finally sighed, accepting the fact that he could not stay here forever, “Right, let’s go before my cock freezes off, I hope to use it again someday.”

The others chuckled and entered the elevator, prepared for their slightly-less-slow descent. Sandor felt his face was still relaxed, and there was but one thought in his otherwise empty mind: _I need to come back up here with_ her _. I’d like to look upon her face when all her worry slips away. Just once._


	34. Ring the Bell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a feast, Jaime reflects. Sansa challenges herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV from one of my favorite characters - and our first opportunity to hear what someone else thinks of Sandor and Sansa's relationship

**Jaime**

The evening of their arrival at Castle Black, a small feast was held to welcome and honor the two visiting queens. The hall they occupied was not nearly large enough to accommodate the entire Watch, so Jaime assumed that only the worthiest (or most well-mannered) men were invited by the officers to attend.

Much like at Winterfell the ale flowed freely while the meal was modest. _Fine by me._

Unlike at Winterfell, Jaime suspected the meat in the stew was recently a tired old pack horse, but he ate it anyway. _I’ve eaten worse._

Jon, Sam, and the three other officers sat at a raised table. Jon was at the left end, with Daenerys seated between he and Lord Steward Bowen Marsh. Next to Marsh sat First Builder Othell Yarwyck, then First Ranger Eddison Tollett, then Sansa with Maester Sam Tarly as the right-side bookend.

Jaime wondered whether placing two men between the Queens had been intentional. He suspected it was; Jon Snow always looked uncomfortable in the presence of the two women – torn between his loyalty to his sibling and the woman with whom he’d become smitten. Of course, the honorable son of Ned Stark would never admit to _romantic_ feelings to this woman so beyond his reach, but it was obvious to Jaime that the young Lord Commander _was_ smitten. Jaime could spot forbidden lust from a mile away. He saw it in Jorah Mormont for his queen, and in Sandor Clegane for _his_ queen. In the former’s case it was clear the affection was unrequited, however in the latter case Jaime sometimes wondered if Sansa didn’t have some fondness for the Hound. If she did Jaime would never understand it. He could admit the Hound was loyal and honest to a fault, but his virtues ended there. He was rough, mean, quick to anger, over-dependent on sarcasm, and – Jaime hated himself for thinking this – ugly. There was no point in denying it – after all, the Hound didn’t. His physique may have been enough to catch the eye of a few wenches and even ladies, but one look at his _face_ and the allure fell away.

In truth, Jaime used to pity Sandor. When they were squires at Casterly Rock, Jaime would often use his position as Lord Tywin’s son to admonish other boys who snickered behind Sandor’s back. Eventually though, Sandor became so bitter that he spurned those same boys even when they tried to befriend him. It became harder and harder to defend someone who so stubbornly rejected your aid, and so Jaime stopped trying, and watched the timid Sandor Clegane transform into the vicious Hound.

Sansa, however, never seemed to look at him as such. Then again, she hardly looked at _anyone_ with _anything_ that gave away her true opinions. But Jaime couldn’t deny the fact that on at least a few occasions he caught Sansa staring at the Hound with… _something_ in her eyes. Curiosity? Fascination? Pity? He couldn’t put a word to it, but he knew his queen’s feelings toward Sandor Clegane were more nuanced than likely even she realized.

But then again, she was very difficult to read – had been ever since he, Brienne, and Podrick had met her on the road to Castle Black many moons ago. She was weak and sickly and yet gave no hint of her actual _emotions_. As she slept late each morning Jaime and Brienne would question Theon about their experiences under the Boltons, hoping for some information that would help them help _her._ Theon offered few details, clearly thinking it a betrayal to Sansa, but he also looked desperate to unburden himself, and was grateful to have others to share the task of seeing Sansa safely to the Wall. Theon himself looked always on the verge of crumbling, as if a light breeze might blow him away like the ashes of a burnt log.

What little Theon shared was vague, but over the weeks of the journey Jaime and Brienne were able to piece together some semblance of Sansa’s story: Sansa had been married to Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton’s bastard-turned-heir. Prior to that Theon had been Ramsay’s prisoner at Winterfell. When Sansa arrived, she became the target of Ramsay’s cruelty while Theon was spared – though it sounded like Theon was made to witness Sansa’s suffering firsthand. Sansa became addicted to Milk of the Poppy, which explained her current state of fevers, aches, and nausea. Eventually Sansa killed Ramsay and she and Theon escaped through a tunnel.

Theon shared no specifics related to the abuse Sansa faced as Ramsay’s wife, but it was clear to Jaime that it was well beyond the slaps and shoves that were not uncommon between man and wife…

And yet, even those first days in each other’s company, Sansa hid her sorrow behind a mask of courtesy and stoicism. Even when Jaime and Brienne told Sansa of their respective vows made to her late mother, Lady Catelyn, Sansa shed not a tear. She merely studied their faces, then calmly replied:

> _“Lady Brienne, we’ve never met, but I believe your story, and believe your stated intentions are genuine. I know you visited the Vale to search for me, long ago. I heard this not from Lord Baelish but from my friend, Myranda Royce. She spoke of a tall, blond-haired lady warrior who was asking after me in the hope of offering her protection against any who’d see me harmed…”_
> 
> _“And, Ser Jaime, I am not ignorant of your family’s betrayal of mine, but I do not believe you were central in those plots. You and I had little opportunity to interact during my time in King’s Landing, but Lord Tyrion once told me that you had spoken out in protest of your nephew’s treatment of me.”_
> 
> She had continued in her flat tone, _“Further, should you have been dispatched by the King to hunt me down after learning of my escape from the Boltons, you’d not have made it to the North so soon. However, before I can, in good faith, accept either of you into my service, I feel you should be informed of the dangers you face. No doubt you’ve both met your share of foes, but the Boltons give the word cruelty a new meaning. If you are found by them in my company, you will be made to regret ever stepping foot north of the Twins.”_

A smart man would have reconsidered then: he’d have wondered if fulfilling an old vow to a now-deceased lady was worth pitting himself against the Boltons – in _their_ territory. But Jaime was never too smart. Instead, he kneeled in the snow before Sansa Stark and laid down his sword, feeling utterly beholden to this amazing young woman. He was awed by her maturity, her grace, and her strength. Here she stood in the snowy wilderness, weak and feverish, with an entire army on her heels for all she knew, and her first concern was the pair of disgraced warriors before her. He couldn’t imagine any young lady having a fraction of Sansa’s fortitude under similar circumstances. Sansa extended more concern toward Jaime than he was accustomed to receiving from his own _family._ In that moment, as Jaime recited the age-old pledge of protection, he made a silent plea to the Seven Gods: _See me flayed alive before failing this young woman._

Jaime was snapped back to the festivities, quite literally, by his brother’s stubby fingers snapping in front of his face, “ _Ser Jaime_ , would you care to join us?”

“Sorry, I was just thinking about… something,” Jaime had never been an accomplished liar.

“What’s got you so distracted, brother? There isn’t much to look at here, unless some pretty _steward_ has caught your eye.”

Not one to let an insult go unreturned, Jaime huffed, “What about you, _brother_? You’ve gone more than a moon without a whore, I’m surprised your cock hasn’t jumped off your body and inched its way to Mole Town by now.”

At that Tyrion let out a hearty laugh. Tormund had made his way over to their table, “What’s so funny?”

Tyrion spoke while wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes, “Oh we’re just wondering which Lannister boy can go longer without a good _tug_.”

Brienne snorted, “No one was _wondering_.”

Everyone laughed heartily, which startled Brienne. In the years he’d known her, Jaime had grown fond of the way she was often funny without meaning to be. It was another indication of her _innocence_ – which Jaime also admired.

Jaime sat back, sipped his dark ale, and took in his surroundings once more. Now that the meal was finished, Daenerys and Sansa were separately making their rounds, stopping at each table to speak with the jovial men of the Watch who sought their favor. Both women looked kindly upon all the men, Daenerys with a beaming grin on her full lips, Sansa with a half-smile on her heart-shaped mouth.

Jaime observed a distinct difference in the way the men responded to the dragon versus the wolf. To Daenerys they were courteous, and obviously charmed by her beauty, but _leery_. With Sansa they were equally enamored but more at ease. They were respectful but let their guard down enough to jape with one another in her presence.

The festivities continued inside the hall for at least a half hour after supper, but gradually the men began ambling out into the courtyard where more of their comrades – those not present for the feast – could share in the merriment.

 _It’s buggering cold out here_ , Jaime thought as he followed the crowd into the courtyard. _I’ll need to drink more ale to avoid losing another extremity._ At that thought Jaime glanced down at the gloved falsehood that was a poor substitute for what was once one the most capable sword hand in Westeros.

He had come to terms with his loss of limb some time ago, though he couldn’t quite remember when. He suspected Brienne was partly responsible: she was sympathetic to him but never pitying. She was helpful but never patronizing. She never mocked him but also never tried to placate him. As a companion she was the perfect combination of a woman’s kindness and a man’s indifference, a woman’s strength of conscience and a man’s strength of constitution.

Once again Jaime let himself drift back to the present to observe the courtyard around him. The men of the Watch had broken into groups to entertain themselves with games and competitions. Much dice-rolling, card-playing, dagger-throwing, and arm-wrestling ensued. After much pleading, a few young men well into their cups managed to get Sandor to agree to an arm-wrestle. Sandor defeated one of the men decidedly, though with no apparent pride. Tormund was next to challenge him and put up a respectable resistance for a good minute before Sandor finished him. After besting the fierce Wildling Sandor was left to drink his ale in peace.

Sansa and Daenerys looked out of place among all the rough me but made an effort to take interest in some of the games and competitions. The men seemed to try a bit harder, stand a bit straighter, when either queen was nearby.

Eventually Jaime saw Sansa meander to a far corner of the courtyard where several men were trying to jump high enough to ring a large bell that hung high off the ground from a tall wooden post. Jaime followed, curiosity piqued. He overheard one of the men explaining the rules to Sansa: you could get a running start and could kick or push off the pole. With communal pride he explained that it’s only once every several years that someone would successfully ring the bell. By now Sandor had wandered over and Jaime couldn’t resist the opportunity to jest with the tall man, “They said you’re not allowed to try.”

To his surprise Sandor chuckled, then gestured to his knees, “My jumping days are over.”

They watched for several minutes before another drunken young man started encouraging Sansa to try. She politely resisted but the man was insistent, and when others joined in, she blushed and agreed to give it a try, succumbing to the pressure.

Sansa removed her long cloak and handed it to Jaime. Beneath it she wore only her leather boots, breeches, and doublet. Sandor eyed her quizzically, but she just shrugged, expressionless as ever.

Her first attempt was pitiful, though Jaime suspected she was holding back in an effort to look ladylike. The second was similar. Finally Jaime offered some encouragement, “Come on, your grace. If you’re going to try something, _try_ it. Don’t worry about looking a fool, you’re surrounded by them!”

Raucous laughter broke out. A crowd that included Daenerys and Jon had wandered over to spectate, and Sansa blushed once again but looked more determined. Starting from further away, she put more speed and effort into her third attempt but still wasn’t close to reaching the bell. The fourth attempt was much the same. Sansa paused, tilting her head to study the post before making her fifth attempt. She started the same only this time, when her right foot kicked off the post, she pivoted her torso and inverted her body, hitting the bell with the toe of her boot. She managed to land on both feet, but her momentum pulled her backwards and she fell on her rump, in very _un-_ ladylike fashion. Everyone stood in shocked silence, not knowing whether to applaud her victory or rush to her aid. Their decision was made easier when Sansa, looking as shocked as the rest of them, finally melted into a fit of laughter. A moment later the men broke out in cheers and laughter, and Jon offered a hand to help his sister up. As Sansa dusted snow and dirt off her legs, Daenerys offered some congratulations, but Jaime noted a queer look in her violet eyes.

 _This Dragon Queen doesn’t look happy to be sharing mens’ admiration with another_ Queen.

The flicker of jealousy was subtle, but it unnerved Jaime deeply, as it reminded him of another set of violet eyes – eyes that belonged to the man who made a young Ser Jaime choose between being a _Kin_ slayer and a _King_ slayer.

Sandor must have noticed his unease because when Jaime looked at the tall man, he was staring back, his good eyebrow raised quizzically. Jaime’s silence must have been conspicuous amongst the merriment. Sandor didn’t ask, but Jaime answered, eager to share his fear with another person, “Reminds me of someone I used to know…”

Sandor would only have known King Aerys II by reputation, but that was enough for him to realize Jaime’s intent, “Aye, just what the world needs, another _mad_ Targaryen.”


	35. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A demonstration, an argument, and a nightmare.

**Sandor**

_What the buggering Hells?!_

Sandor stood in the training yard of Castle Black and could say, with no shame, that this was the closest he’d ever been to shitting himself.

Until this moment he hadn’t truly believed the wights were real. It was easier to believe that Jon, Sansa, Brienne, Jaime, and countless others had all imagined up the dreaded creatures. When Jon pried open a wooden crate in the middle of the yard, at first nothing happened, and Sandor was quite happy to be proven right, until Jon gave the crate a firm kick with his boot. The creature that tumbled out could only be described as a walking, ravenous, semi-decomposed corpse. It took a few steps before its short chain yanked it back toward the heavy crate, but that was all it took for every person in the yard to draw his or her sword or dagger. The men of the Night’s Watch all carried jagged black daggers – what Sandor learned to be dragonglass, while Jon himself wielded his Valyrian steel sword, _Longclaw_. Jorah Mormont didn’t hesitate to step in front of his queen, as Sandor did the same with his.

Sansa placed a hand on his forearm, “It’s alright Sandor, it is thoroughly chained.” Her words did not comfort him as he kept his sword drawn, and noted that Brienne, Jaime, and Theon had instinctively done the same. The wight looked around at those surrounding it and hissed in either disdain or fear.

Confident the chain would hold, Jon sheathed his sword and was handed a spear by the First Ranger, Edd Tollett. Sandor was one of the few present who had not seen the demonstration that was about to begin, so he stepped forward a few paces.

Jon lifted the spear, “A typical spear, with a standard steel tip.” Without pause he thrust the spear into the creature’s chest, where it’s heart would be, but the creature neither bled nor fell, and only appeared to be angered by the offense.

Jon handed the spear back to Edd in exchange for a sword, “A standard steel sword.” With a graceful swing he freed the wight of its left hand. The hand fell to the ground but continued moving of its own volition. Daenerys’ yelp echoed off the surrounding buildings, and Sandor saw the Kingslayer flinch out of the corner of his eye. It was only then that Sandor noticed the wretched creature was already missing its right hand, likely severed in a similar display for Sansa and her bannermen many moons ago.

Before the severed limb could crawl away Jon stepped on it with the toe of his boot. He handed the sword back to Edd and produced from his own belt a dragonglass dagger. “Your grace,” he called Daenerys’ attention, though her eyes had never left the morbid display, “a dragonglass dagger, forged thanks to your generosity.” He plunged the dagger into the hand and it instantly stilled.

A few Rangers prodded the wight back into its crate with long spears. Daenerys was still standing with her hand to her mouth in apparent shock.

…

A short time later Sandor and Jorah accompanied their respective charges along with Jon Snow to the Lord Commander’s private quarters. Daenerys gladly accepted the offered ale. Her face proved she was unaccustomed to the bitter Northern drink, but she gulped it down in an effort to calm her nerves.

Jon spoke politely once the Dragon Queen appeared somewhat settled, “Your grace, you have now seen our enemy firsthand. Now imagine that thing, bearing a sword or other weapon, multiplied by 100,000. That is the threat we face. Surely you now see why my sister and I believe it is not just a threat to the Wall, or to the North, but to the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys nodded, “And you are certain of your estimates, Lord Snow? That there are 100,000 of these creatures?”

Jon smiled weakly, “One rarely has occasion to survey an army that large, but yes. If our estimate is off, it is not off by much.”

Daenerys nodded before a strange confidence crept into her eyes, and Sandor realized too late Jon and Sana’s blunder. By demonstrating the severity of the threat they had revealed their own desperation. The Dragon Queen had the upper hand, and she knew it, as she spoke with an air of entitlement Sandor had only ever heard in Joffrey Baratheon and Cersei Lannister, “I see now your need for my support is indisputable…” Sansa’s eyes showed that she caught on before Jon, as she cast a quick glance in Sandor’s direction. “I suggest we resume our negotiations immediately so we can begin to focus on our plan of attack. For my part, I am still willing to lend my three dragons which can burn through significant portions of the Night King’s army, though I remain firm in _not_ sacrificing any of my men.”

Sansa considered her words a moment, “So what you are willing to offer has not changed. Should I assume what you are asking in return has also not changed?”

Daenerys nodded, “You assume correct.”

Sansa kept a cool tone, “Do you remain unconvinced that this is a threat to all of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I would not say that, but the immediate risk is not to me. If the North prevails over the dead, it will not have mattered whether I lent my support. If the North fails, then I will have to face the dead. I still do not see the benefit in assuming the North will fail without my aid.”

“There are multiple benefits. If you support us and we prevail, you will be gaining an ally in the North. Moreover, if your plan is to see how the North fares before joining the fight, you are taking quite a risk. Every Northerner who falls becomes another wight that _you_ will eventually need to contend with.”

“You say I will be gaining an ally, but what good is an ally that won’t help me in the war to come? That won’t demonstrate its loyalty by bending the knee and agreeing to a marriage alliance.”

“You ask me to commit to all these terms _before_ we fight together. What assurances do I have that you’re even serious, that you won’t fly away with your dragons if the battle does not go in our favor?”

“You have only my word, but I can assure you that I am fiercely protective of my allies and friends. Ask anyone who is in my service.”

“And who might I get an honest answer from? Your sworn shield who is oath-bound to support you even if it means lying to me? The Unsullied who are loyal to you because you killed their slavers in order to gain their army? It seems every other city that has kneeled to you has done so out of fear of being burnt alive!”

Rage painted the Dragon Queen’s face, “A fear you would be wise to share if you continue to insult me. Why don’t you ask your man if you’re unconvinced?!” Sansa rose and for a moment Sandor thought she was going to attack Daenerys with her bare hands. He was strangely flattered by the protectiveness his lady had for him, as unnecessary as it was.

Sansa chose to ignore the reference to Sandor’s scars and instead attempted to make progress in the negotiations, “For the sake of the realm, I will offer a compromise. I am willing to bend the knee, _after_ you fight with us, if at least half my bannermen agree – which they likely will if you and your dragons save us as you are certain you can. I will also allow any of my men to join your cause after the dead are dealt with – but it will be done on a voluntary basis. I will not force them into another war when they’ve already fought and bled so much.”

“But you are unwilling to marry in order to cement the alliance?”

“I am, and I don’t see why it should matter to you who I marry. If I’m the Wardeness of the North and you have my loyalty, that should be enough.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes, “It _would_ be if I could be guaranteed it would last. With no Warden to share authority, you can _unbend_ your knee just as quickly as you bend it. For that matter you can marry into the Lannister or Tyrell families and support their side against mine!”

Sansa laughed, “If you think I would willingly marry into the Lannister—”

“Why not? You seem fond enough of both of Lord Tywin’s sons, either of whom could be Warden of the West upon their father’s demise.”

_This queen is not just mad, she’s paranoid. A bad combination._

Sansa shook her head, “You came all this way, and you are _still_ unwilling to compromise. I’m willing to give you my Kingdom and my men’s lives, within reason, and you will hold up our alliance over a _marriage?_ You want me to trust you enough to call you my queen, yet you won’t even trust me to not betray you to the very people who murdered my family?!”

Daenerys turned to Jon, “Perhaps you can help your sister see reason. I am lending her three full-grown _dragons_ , not three gray mares!”

“ _I_ need to see reason?! I now know why you lack the skill of compromise: you rely on fear to gain allies and eliminate enemies. Without your dragons you are nothing, you’d be _nothing_. I reclaimed a Kingdom with nothing but my name and my bare hands. People swore to me not out of fear but out of respect, and I didn’t even have to ask for it, they offered their loyalty willingly. Can you say the same? Show me the people who’ve bowed to you for some reason other than your dragons, and I’ll give you what you want.” Sansa spat the words at the lesser queen, who was once again struck speechless. With more pride than she was entitled to, Daenerys walked out of the room with Jorah in tow.

The little bird’s eyes were dark with hatred, her chest was rising and falling, yet somehow her brother dared to speak, “Sansa, you would be this close and let the alliance fall apart over a marriage? I know you’ve had bad experiences, but you won’t fall victim again, you are the Lady of Winterfell...”

“As was our mother, when the Freys slit her throat and threw her corpse in the river.”

Jon looked ashamed for a moment but did not yield, “I know, but this is different. This won’t be Joffrey or Harrold or Ramsay… I won’t let that happen.”

“Hah! Like you didn’t let it happen the first time? What could you do to stop it, hmm?” Sansa glared at her brother while rising to meet him face-to-face. “Eighteen moons, Jon,” she snarled, “eighteen moons I lived in King’s Landing as Joffrey’s _betrothed_ , then his _aunt_ , but I was only ever truly the mouse to his cat, subject to whatever humiliation he could dream up, subject to punishment every time Robb had a victory…”

“…Then another twelve moons as Petyr's _ward_ , being slobbered on even after he’d married me off to try to further his own cause…”

Sandor tensed at her words, but it seemed that Sansa had forgotten his presence entirely, seething as she was.

“…and finally another eight moons as Ramsay’s _wife_ , and don’t bother wondering what I incurred there, your honorable mind isn’t capable of conjuring up horrors of that magnitude.”

She took a deep breath to calm herself but still spoke through gritted teeth and clenched fists, “So I _kindly_ ask, dear brother, that you refrain from supporting Daenerys Targaryen in her quest to find me another _loving_ husband and strip me of the power I’ve fought and bled for.”

Sansa turned and walked out into the courtyard, but Jon would not be mollified. Stomping out after her he yelled at her back, “Oh, so it’s _power_ you care about. See I thought it was your _people_ , but if you’re unwilling to do your duty, to do whatever you can to save the North, then you aren’t Eddard Stark’s daughter!”

 _Fucking cunt!_ Sandor was about to grind the little bastard into the dirt, but before he could raise a fist the little bird flew at her brother with a violence Sandor didn’t think she was capable of. She went for his neck, but he grabbed her wrists and held them away. When she didn’t stop clawing at him, he finally shoved her away, but she managed to tangle her feet between his, taking him down to the ground before pouncing on him and throwing blows. Jon covered his head but some of her blows landed, angering him even more. Some of his men ran over to pull her off but Tormund, Jaime, Theon and Sandor stepped into their path. Jaime simply stated, “They need to get this out,” knowing better than most the tension that can fester between siblings if not let out.

At that moment Jon rolled over and, kneeling at her side, pinned Sansa’s arms across her chest, yelling at her to stop, but the she-wolf refused to yield. “Fuck you Jon! What would you know of duty? You abandoned your family when we needed you most! You left your real brothers to die while staying safe with your _brothers in black.”_

She’d struck a nerve. Jon’s eyes grew dark and for a moment Sandor thought he would strike his sister, but instead he released her and sat back on his ankles.

Sansa was the first to stand. She began to walk toward the guest quarters but stopped just before the stairs. Turning slowly, she spoke low enough that only Jon and those nearest to them could hear, “Did you even think about leaving after they killed Father? You could have helped Robb, been there to advise him to uphold his oath to the Freys. You could have been there at Winterfell, maybe the Iron Born wouldn’t have attacked, or you’d have at least been there to help Bran and Rickon…”

Jon’s face reddened, “I swore vows, Sansa. I know you don’t want to hear it, but my duty to protect the realm of men is no less important than my duty to my family,” he spoke meekly, as if not entirely convinced of the truth of his statement.

Even more quietly, Sansa continued, head down. “I kept waiting for you to come save me, Jon, as impossible as it sounds. I waited but you never came. We lost our entire family, Jon, and I lost even more, while you were here, away from it all.”

He had no response, and she again made to leave, but he called to her, “Sansa, wait.” He stood. “Let me talk to Daenerys. She’s reasonable. Agree to marry a southern lord of _your_ choosing, agree to bend the knee if she helps us, unconditionally. She likely will not even ask you to lend the Northern armies to her battles.”

Sansa let out a chilling laugh and shook her head in disbelief. She turned toward her brother, “How about this, Jon? How about _you_ go marry a southern Lady...” Then she plucked off the direwolf pin she wore over her right breast. She whipped it so hard Jon couldn’t catch it, “And you can be the Stark in Winterfell and bend the knee to your Dragon Queen.” She walked up the wooden stairs to her quarters and slammed the door shut behind her, leaving an entire courtyard full of silent men.

\--------------------------------------------

After a half hour had passed, Sandor knocked on the little bird’s door, saying “It’s me”.

She opened the door and Sandor was surprised to find her in only a gray tunic and leather breeches. After a minute spent in silence she finally spoke, “Whatever you’re going to say to convince me to agree to her terms, you can save your breath.”

Sandor shocked her with his reply, “I wouldn’t trust that bitch as far as I could throw her. Your brother’s an arse hole, too busy drooling over her to notice the madness in her eyes.”

“So you agree with me?” she looked up hopefully.

“Aye.”

“But I guess I won’t win the _worst brother_ battle with you,” she arched an eyebrow.

Sandor laughed, “No girl, I have exclusive rights to that claim. But you do have my sympathy… seems to me it might be more frustrating to have a brother you sometimes hate, sometimes love. Emotions are easier when they’re straightforward.”

Sansa sighed, returning to the larger topic, “Even if she is a little mad, she’s still our best chance of defeating the Night King’s army.” She paused before making a confession, “Jon is right. It isn’t the battle that most frightens me, it’s the idea of being married again.” She plopped heavily on the edge of her mattress, “Gods, I know I’m a coward, but I just can’t do it, not again… I told myself I’d do it if it was necessary but I just can’t bring myself to agree to it.”

_Say something nice. Tell her she’s not a coward._

“Look girl, I don’t know what you’ve been through, but I know it was bad. You shouldn’t be forced to do something you don’t want to do.” She looked unconvinced. He pointed at his facial scars, “Look at me, it’s been more than twenty years since _this_ happened, but I still flinch every time I start a fire.”

“Yes, but you still start the fire, because it’s needed for warmth and cooking.”

“But I didn’t for a long time! I was probably three and ten before I started my own fires again. Your wounds are fresh, little bird, no one can fault you for your fears.”

“Even when my fears are putting the ‘ _realm of men’_ at risk?” she asked, mimicking Jon’s earlier words.

“Fuck the realm of men. Men are vicious, war-mongering bastards. We’re not worthy of your sacrifice.”

She smiled faintly, which encouraged him to continue. “In fact, if you really want to save the world, ship all the ladies and pillow biters to Essos, and leave us hairy men here to kill each other off.”

Sansa’s sorrow finally cracked, “You always know what to say, Sandor. No one else lifts my spirits quite like you do.”

He shrugged indifferently, “Aye, people tell me that all the time.”

\--------------------------------------------------

That night, Sandor awoke to the sound of a woman screaming. Instinctively he grabbed his longsword and en route to the source of the sound he realized it was the little’s birds shrieks he was hearing.

_If one of those fucking criminals has touched her, I’ll open him up from balls to throat._

He nearly collided with Jon Snow as the shorter man rushed from his chambers, also sword-in-hand. They looked at each other only a moment before entering Sansa’s chambers together.

But there was no man in her bed, only her, flailing and panting in her sleep. Jon handed Sandor his sword and jumped on her bed, shaking her to rouse her from sleep. When her eyes opened, they looked terrified, then confused, then finally sad. By now Theon, Brienne, and Jaime had appeared in the doorway, but Sandor reassured them, “It’s alright, just a nightmare it seems, you can go back to bed.” Brienne eyed him curiously, no doubt wondering why _he_ should stay while _she_ returned to bed, but she did not press the issue.

When Sandor looked back to the bed, he saw Sansa clinging tightly to Jon’s shoulders. Jon was stroking her hair, but sobs continued to rack her small body as she muttered uncontrollably, “I couldn’t stop him! I couldn’t stop him! He killed my son!” she broke into another bout of sobs as Jon and Sandor stared at each other, bewildered.

Jon finally spoke, “Sansa, you don’t have a son, it was just a dream.”

Sansa looked up at them and appeared to finally realize where she was. Her face hardened. She wiped her eyes and nodded her head. “You’re right Jon, it was a nightmare, a terrible nightmare… It was just – it just felt so real… I’m sorry to have woken you both.” She rose and headed to her table then poured herself a glass of water which she gulped down before assuring them she was fine. Reluctantly they turned to leave when Sandor noticed Theon still standing in the doorway, staring at Sansa in awe. Seeing Sandor’s eyes he lowered his head and hastily retreated to his chambers.


	36. So Much for Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news for our characters

**Jon**

Jon woke determined to get these two stubborn women to come to terms. He understood his sister’s past experiences made it difficult for her to trust, but he was convinced there existed some combination of words that would prove to her that Daenerys’ word was true. She had been shipping dragonglass to Castle Black for months now, before she’d even seen the wights for herself. She had traveled all this way in response to Jon’s plea, something no other King, Lord or Lady had done – and he had sent ravens to at least two dozen recipients, including Tommen Baratheon, Tywin Lannister, Doran Martell, Randyll Tarly, Petyr Baelish, and Edmure Tully. All his letters went unanswered except one, and now Jon sat in his private chambers, breaking his fast with Daenerys Targaryen herself.

After apologizing for his sister’s behavior, Daenerys grasped his hand, “Jon, you are not your sister. I know that if it were within your power our alliance would already be forged. I know you love your sister, but I’m afraid she is unwilling to yield.”

“But she _was_ willing to yield Dany, you heard her offer to bend the knee, and to allow Northerners to enlist in your army.”

Daenerys smiled at him but looked patronizing, “Jon, you know those are empty promises. Her bannermen may not support her even if she genuinely is willing to bend the knee. And how many men volunteer to go back to war after they’ve only just come home to their families?”

“I understand, but would you really want to claim the North against the Northerner’s will? That’s hardly a loyalty I’d put faith in.”

She smiled again, this time with genuine affection in her beautiful eyes, “You are wise beyond your years, Jon Snow. It should be you, you know.”

“What should be me?”

“The King in the North… the Lord of Winterfell. When I break the wheel bastards will have the same rights as trueborn children. Rulers will be chosen based on their virtues and their blood, not just the latter.”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. This conversation felt like a betrayal of his sister, who earned her title not just with her name but also with her many virtues. He told Sansa so this morning, when he met her in her chambers and returned the direwolf pin she had flung at him.

Jon looked up at Daenerys, “I have no desire to rule, your grace. Sansa… I know you and she are butting heads, but she is a good Lady and Queen. She has only her people’s best interests in mind.”

“You are too kind, Jon. I heard about your _scuffle_ in the courtyard yesterday, how she belittled you in front of your men, accused you of failing to uphold your duty to your family, yet now you defend her.”

Jon felt himself blush, “It seems what you didn’t hear is what caused the scuffle to begin with, which was me lobbing the same accusation at her… _unfairly_ , I might add.”

Daenerys looked unconvinced but said no more on the subject. “Your grace, is there no compromise you can envision being acceptable?”

“I’m afraid not, Jon. I understand she is your sister, but your love for her has blinded you. She is irrational and quick-tempered. She has murdered, Jon… she has murdered one and likely other husbands, men to whom she swore vows. Whether those men deserved their fates or not is immaterial. Need I remind you that I had barely flowered when I was sold to Khal Drogo? Yet I never put a dagger to his throat.”

_And you also said you grew to love him… Ramsay was never worthy of Sansa’s love._

Daenerys continued, “But I don’t want to have come all this way in vain, Jon Snow. I will continue sending you dragonglass, and I will offer additional assistance… fly north with me, today. With my dragons we can cover in hours what would take you weeks by horse. This way you can survey the army without risking anyone’s safety. You will know its precise location and from above you should be able to accurately gauge its size. Perhaps it’s smaller than you think… or bigger, but either way I’m sure you want to know.”

 _Little good that will do._ “That is quite generous, your grace. You have my thanks.”

“I do not need your thanks, it is a small gesture on my part, though I do hope that whatever the future brings, you will think of me as a friend, not a foe.”

“Of course, Dany, of that you can be assured,” Jon offered his hand to help her rise.

“Thank you, Jon. Shall we find Jorah and prepare to depart?”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

_Good riddance_.

Sandor was glad to see Daenerys, Jorah, Jon, and the bloody dragons depart, even if they’d only be gone until nightfall.

It was late morning before Sansa emerged from her quarters, and after her nightmare the prior night Sandor was certain she would look somehow… _different._ Yet she walked down the steps into the courtyard looking as poised as always. Sandor fell in behind her and told her of Jon and Daenerys’ departure a couple hours earlier. Sansa thanked him for the update before dismissing him, saying she intended to have a private meeting with Maester Samwell. Sandor assumed she wanted to catch up with the chubby young man who Sansa seemed particularly fond of among all the brothers in black.

With little to occupy himself, Sandor made his way to the training yard where Beric, Jaime, and Brienne were giving impromptu lessons and demonstrations to some of the young rangers. Sandor agreed to join them after feigning reluctance… the truth was he never felt more alive than with a sword in his hand, even if only in training. Soon a crowd had gathered to watch Sandor and Brienne spar. Tormund himself was following Brienne’s every move with lust-filled eyes. Jaime was offering explanations, pointing out particularly good examples of footwork and swordsmanship. Brienne was a good match for Sandor, but the men were more in awe of his size and speed. Eventually a freckly lad shouted out a question, “Hound, has anyone ever bested you?”

“Only once,” he grunted between parries. He noticed Brienne’s mouth curve up slightly.

“Who?”

“You’re looking at her.”

The men gasped – much to Brienne’s embarrassment – she became the new object of their admiration. Jaime couldn’t pass up the opportunity to rile his friend, “That’s right boys, remember that next time you’re tempted to call her _Brienne the Beauty_.” Brienne was so shocked by his comment that Sandor disarmed her.

Beric chuckled and took over the narration, “And that, lads, is another lesson: when you can’t best an opponent, try a distraction!”

Sandor was mindful enough of Brienne’s feelings not to smile at either Jaime or Beric’s words, though she shot him a scathing look all the same. When Sandor turned to replace his practice sword on the rack, he noticed Sansa standing on the upper walkway. She was staring directly at him, and her eyes did not move when he saw her. He held her gaze, wondering what she was thinking, and why she was looking at him. Several seconds passed before she abruptly turned and disappeared within her quarters.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Sandor did not disturb Sansa for the midday meal, which took place only minutes after she entered her room. Several hours later as the men began gathering for supper Sandor decided to knock on her door and offer to escort her to the dining hall. He was surprised when Theon opened the door, just enough to see who was there.

“Lady Sansa is not feeling well and wishes you to give her apologies to the officers, and to her brother if he has returned.”

The door was shut before Sandor had a chance to inquire.

Sandor was worried about the little bird but before long there was another cause for alarm. Daenerys, Jon, and Jorah were expected back around dusk, but it was now two hours later and there was no sign of them. The officers and men of the Watch were worried by their Lord Commander’s absence, though Sandor thought they were overreacting. Their estimated arrival was based on Jon’s assumptions of the Night King’s location, and he could easily be off by many miles in the frozen wilderness of the far north.

Sandor laid in bed worrying about Sansa. She appeared perfectly healthy that morning and Sandor couldn’t imagine that anything about her visit with the good-natured Maester Samwell could have caused her distress. He then remembered the night she collapsed in the Glass Gardens – how long had it been since then? Perhaps her moonblood was upon her; that would explain Theon’s presence in her room. He didn’t like thinking about her in pain, but was relieved to have an explanation, and quickly drifted off to sleep.

\------------------------------------------------------------

When Sandor awoke at dawn the next morning he walked out into the courtyard and found everyone in a frenzy. Daenerys’ party had still not returned.

_Alright, now it’s time to start worrying._

Sandor couldn’t imagine anything harming three dragons, and immediately worried that the Mad Queen had kidnapped Jon, intent on returning him only if Sansa agreed to her terms. He was loath to find Tyrion was the only member of his group awake at that hour, and reluctantly expressed his concern to the dwarf – the dwarf he still did not trust.

“I must admit the same thought crossed my mind this morning. My only real assurance that this is not the case is that I do not believe Daenerys would want to give Sansa good reason to make peace with my father… weakened as the North may be, allied with the Crownlands and Westerlands it would not help Daenerys achieve her goal of sitting the Iron Throne. I imagine she’d prefer to keep neutral relations with the North rather than make us her enemy.”

“Us?”

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Yes, as much as it may displease you, I consider myself part of the North, just as you now do.” He shrugged, “Besides, winter is here, and the northern whores and wenches will be looking for someone to keep their beds warm and purses full.”

Sandor ignored the tired joke and went in search of a different kind of warmth – whatever they were serving for breakfast. He was surprised to find Sansa and Theon already there. He approached their table, uncertain if he was welcome, “Good morning, my lady, you should have woken me to escort you.”

“Good morning Sandor, it’s quite alright. I rose early this morning and didn’t want to trouble anyone… though it appears they’d be troubled with or without my help,” she nodded her head around the room of worried-looking brothers in black.

“Indeed. I’m sorry that you must be troubled by this yourself. I hope you are feeling better, otherwise…”

She nodded, “I am. I simply needed a good night’s rest, but you are correct, I can’t help but be concerned by Jon’s absence.”

“Aye, though Tormund has told me storms can come on quickly north of the Wall. Perhaps there was heavy snow or winds and they made camp until it passed.”

“I hope you are right, and that they were provisioned enough to wait out the storm.”

Sandor simply nodded; there was no further comfort he could offer. Eventually Brienne, Jaime, Beric, Thoros, Tyrion, Podrick, and Tormund arrived, and the group dined together though struggled to find any topics of conversation that held their attention.

Close to midday everyone breathed a sigh of relief to hear the normally fear-inducing screeches overhead. Walking brusquely into the courtyard Sandor only saw two of the beasts flying in the sky above: the large black one called Drogon and the smaller green and bronze one called Rhaegal. They both landed outside the gates and within minutes Jon and Jorah entered following a visibly upset Daenerys. She and Jorah walked straight to her quarters without so much as a glance at anyone.

Jon approached Sansa with his head bowed, “Jon, what happened?! We’ve been so worried!”

He gently kissed his sister’s cheek, whispering, “Not here.”

Sansa nodded and cast a glance at Sandor. The group followed Jon into the main hall where they were joined by the other officers of the Watch.

Jon took a long sip of warm ale as everyone watched him with bated breath. He ran his hands through his wind-tangled hair as he spoke, “This is bad.”

“What is, Jon? Did you see the army? Is it bigger than you expected, or nearer?”

He shook his head, “We found the army, about where we expected it to be, near the eastern shore, south of where Tormund and I last faced them. I still would say it’s 100,000-strong, give or take a few thousand. We still only saw two giants.”

“Then what happened? Where is Daenerys’ other dragon, did it get lost in a storm?”

Jon rubbed his mouth, “It’s dead.”

Everyone gasped, but only Sandor had the clarity of mind to ask the critical question, “How?”

Jon sighed, seemingly pained to relive the experience, “When we found the army, we landed the dragons atop a cliff where we had a clear view but from a safe distance… or so we thought. Jorah and I surveyed the army, spoke for a while, rested a while. We decided that when we left, we’d take one quick pass a bit closer to the ground. I wanted to get a view of the White Walkers, see if it is still just four or if there were others. We were still well out of harm’s way – at least eighty yards in the air and ascending, when the Night King threw a spear. I don’t know how it is possible, but he struck Viserion and the dragon plummeted into the ocean, instantly dead.”

Everyone gasped for the second time, Jaime summarizing everyone’s reaction, “Eighty yards up into the air? How is that possible?”

Jon shook his head defeatedly.

Through her hands Sansa spoke, “Oh Gods, Daenerys must be devastated!”

Jon nodded, “She is. That is why were delayed. She was beside herself. Jorah managed to calm her down and we landed the dragons several miles from where the army was. She was completely inconsolable. We decided to make camp for the night and left at dawn to return.”

“Has she said anything to you?” Sansa asked.

“No, she was silent the entire ride back. Jorah and I each tried to speak to her, but our words of comfort were ineffective. She is as inconsolable as a mother who’s lost a child.”

Sansa winced, “I should try to talk to her.”

As she stood to rise Jon stilled her, “No offense, Sansa, but you are the last person who she would want to talk to right now.”

“I know we disagree, Jon, but I’m a woman, and I know loss better than most, let me at least try.”

Jon eventually consented, and Sansa walked out into the courtyard headed for Daenerys’ quarters, but was stopped in her tracks as the Dragon Queen herself was already walking toward their group. She walked straight past Sansa, ignoring her completely, and addressed Jon with red-rimmed eyes.

“Lord Commander Snow, I am leaving. I will stop at Winterfell only to retrieve Missandei and then I am headed straight to Dragonstone where I belong. I do not blame you for what happened, but you must understand that I cannot risk another of my children in this fight, no matter what you and your sister are willing to offer.”

“Dany, please, stay here and rest, you shouldn’t leave in this—”

“Do not worry yourself, my lord. Ser Jorah and my dragons will always keep me safe…” She paused, seemingly searching for a way to leave on amicable terms, “For your sake, I pray the Wall will hold, but if it does not, do not expect me to come save you. I will continue supplying the dragonglass for your sake and for the realm’s.”

She headed for the gate, but it was Sansa’s voice that stopped her, “Your grace, I am not your enemy… are you mine?”

Daenerys did not turn her head as she answered honestly, “For now, no.”


	37. A Late Night Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter. Reminder this fic is Sansa-centric - she'll get some of the plot (and glory) that other characters have in the books and/or show. But I think this chapter will make all you SanSan fans happy.

**Sansa**

> _“What do you want?” she hears herself scream at the man – the man with blue eyes who always chases, but never runs. His face bears no menace, but she knows he means her harm. He is closer than he’s ever been before, so close that she can make out more of his features than just his eyes. She notices his clothing – light gray armor that blends almost seamlessly with his gray skin. He could almost be a man but for the color of his skin and the odd shape of his head. From a distance she thought he wore a crown, but now that he is close, she can see it is his very skull._
> 
> _She shouts again, “What do you want?”_
> 
> _The man still does not answer. Though he does not speak, she knows he wants something from her. He looks almost bored with his pursuit, as if chasing her is nothing more than an inconvenience, though somehow she knows her very life depends on her ability to evade him._

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Jon**

It was still dark when Jon was awoken by the sound of frantic knocking at his door. He grabbed his sword and opened the door, his half-conscious brain expecting to see a wight on the other side. Instead he saw only his sister, looking sick with fear.

“Sansa, is everything—”

“May I come in, Jon?” she asked but was already entering his room before he could answer.

She immediately began pacing.

“Sansa, has something happened? You’re frightening me.”

“What? No, no… nothing happened, I just needed to talk.”

“It’s not even dawn, Sansa.”

“Oh, right, I apologize if I woke you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he rubbed his eyes, “What is wrong, Sansa?”

“I just thought I should tell you that I’ll be returning to Winterfell soon. I need to get back there. You and I must begin planning for what comes next… for once the dead army arrives… and if they breach the wall.”

Jon rubbed his tired eyes again, “Alright, but why are we discussing this now? Don’t you think the others should be included?”

Sansa nodded, “Yes, you’re right… of course. I’ll bring everyone in the morning, after we break our fast.”

Jon nodded but she did not move to leave, “Was there something else?”

His sister was visibly disturbed, but she would not tell him the cause. Remembering the night he and Clegane had rushed to her room he took a guess, “Did you have another nightmare?”

After some hesitation she nodded.

“Was it like the one the other night?”

She shook her head, “No… I… they’re silly, really…”

“Sansa, you wouldn’t be standing here in your sleeping gown if it was a silly dream.”

“I know, I mean it will _sound_ silly, but it’s actually quite dreadful. I’ve been having the same dream since we left Winterfell…”

Over the next several minutes Sansa described the dreams that had been haunting her for the past moon. She spoke of the terror of being chased by this mysterious man, but when she described his blue eyes Jon’s blood went cold. She continued talking almost uncontrollably where moments ago she was reticent, until Jon interrupted her, “Sansa… describe this man, other than his blue eyes.”

She told him of the man’s gray skin and armor, and his odd, crown-shaped skull. Jon went silent.

“Jon?” she looked at him, worry plain in her expression.

“Sansa, has Tormund described the Night King to you, or have I?”

Sansa looked confused for a moment, “No… I don’t believe so. I know you said he and the generals look like the wights but less… _dead.”_ Realization dawned on her, “Jon, why are you asking me about the Night King?”

“Because the man – or the being – you’ve been dreaming about fits his description perfectly.”

Sansa looked relieved, “Well that must explain it… all this talk of wights and White Walkers, I must be remembering one of Old Nan’s tales from when we were children.”

Jon shook his head, “I remember those tales, Sansa. The White Walkers were always described as being white like snow, not gray. And glowing blue eyes were never mentioned, nor the shape of the Night King’s skull.”

“Then how…? What are you suggesting, Jon?”

He shook his head again, “I do not know, Sansa. Perhaps Tormund or I described him before and have forgotten.”

“Yes, yes that must be it…”

Sansa retired to her chambers, but sleep would not find Jon again that night.

\---------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor was again surprised to find Sansa up and about before him. She hastily approached him from across the courtyard and offered no greeting. “I’d like to leave for Winterfell as soon as possible. Can you work with Podrick and Theon to make sure we’re prepared? I’ll be spending the day with Jon and the other officers, as well as Brienne and Jaime, making plans for, well… you know.”

“Of course, my lady.” He noticed she once again bore the signs of sleep deprivation and felt ashamed he could do nothing to ease whatever was troubling her.

Sandor found Podrick and Theon after the morning meal, and immediately tasked them each with various tasks. After dismissing Podrick, Sandor asked Theon to stay another moment.

“I know you won’t tell me anything, but I must ask, nonetheless. Is our lady… _well_?”

For a change Theon looked confused rather than guarded, “I believe she is… do you have reason to doubt it?”

Sandor shrugged, “Just looks like she isn’t sleeping well… she looks like she’s lost weight. I know we’re all worried about what’s to come, but…”

Theon nodded, “Sansa has always put pressure on herself, even as a child. She probably is just bearing the full weight of responsibility for the fate of the North.”

“Aye, that’s probably it,” Sandor was unconvinced but decided to channel his anxiety into the tasks at hand.

…

Jon, Sansa, and the others did not emerge until the evening meal. They all looked haggard, undoubtedly exhausted by the monumental challenge they were facing. As she’d done that morning, Sansa sought Sandor out after she’d finished dining.

“My lady?”

“Good evening, Sandor. Would you walk with me?”

“Of course,” he offered his arm and she took it, putting more weight on him than usual.

“How did the planning go?”

She sighed, “As well as can be expected, considering we’re facing an unprecedented threat… Jon may want to ask for your input on certain matters.”

“Of course.”

She nodded, “My thanks. I think we would benefit from your experience.”

Sandor was surprised when, instead of heading toward the guest quarters, she led them on a casual stroll. The Wall was a cold place, and people didn’t linger outside unnecessarily, unless deep in their cups. “Are we going somewhere in particular?”

“No, I just need to stretch my legs after being inside all day. I’m not ready to go to sleep… Oh, I’m sorry, you probably want to get to bed, or out of the cold at least.”

He was cold but could never deny her, “I’m fine, it’s a nice night.” It wasn’t, but she accepted the lie. “So, any part of the plan I should know about?”

“Jon can fill you in on the details, though it is its _plans_ plural – we don’t know if they’ll breach the gate, breach the Wall, or not breach at all. We’re not sure if the fight will be at Castle Black, though that would be the likely attack point as it has the widest gates and tunnels, but it could be elsewhere. And we’ve decided everyone north of Winterfell will retreat there if The Wall is breached.”

“Mmm.”

They walked in silence for several minutes before Sandor could no longer rein in his concern, “Little bird, you seem unwell.”

She shrugged, “I’m just worried, I suppose. It’s hard to sleep.”

“Because of the worries, or because of… something else?”

“Something else.”

“Nightmares, like the other night…?”

She nodded. They had arrived at the small Sept, and Sandor opened the door for her. At this hour the Sept was unoccupied. Sandor expected the little bird to kneel in front of the Mother or Father, but instead she just sat on the bench in the center of the room. Sandor sat beside her, leaving two feet between them, but she scooted over to close the gap, and leaned her head on his shoulder.

_Gods little bird, you’ll be the death of me._

Never sure what to do in such moments, Sandor eventually lifted his arm to wrap it around her shoulders, pulling her head against the front of his shoulder where it met his chest. The warmth of her skin and breath burned through his layers of clothing, and he used all his will power not to let himself become aroused. That task became easier when, after a few minutes, her breathing became steady and deep and he realized she had fallen asleep. He considered carrying her to her quarters but couldn’t bring himself to end the moment. Instead he rotated his body toward her just slightly, so he could bring his other arm around her as well. He rested his chin on her head and breathed in the smell of her hair.

The peacefulness of her presence was just lulling him to sleep when he snapped back awake with a start as he felt his head drop. Coming back to consciousness he realized the little bird was awake, too. She had fallen asleep in his arms but as he too succumbed to sleep his arms loosened and she nearly fell off the bench. He began to apologize but she looked slightly amused, “It’s quite alright, I apologize for falling asleep on you in the first place. I suppose I am more ready for bed than I’d realized.”

He rose and helped her up. He walked her back to her quarters. She politely thanked him for the walk and passed him a look he could not interpret before closing the door behind her.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa replaced her furs and leathers with her woolen night gown but decided to sit in the small wooden chair rather than lying in bed. She pulled her cloak around her for warmth; even with a fireplace in the small room it was always drafty – Sansa realized just how vital Winterfell’s hot springs were in heating the castle.

Too many thoughts invaded her mind. Over the past few weeks her nightmares of him – the man Jon told her was the Night King – had intensified. She found herself fearing sleep and came to appreciate how torturous sleep deprivation could be. She understood now why it was a time-tested method of interrogating prisoners. She was only partly sleep-deprived but knew there were no secrets she’d withhold to earn herself a night of peaceful, _dreamless_ slumber.

Yet tonight other, more pleasant thoughts also filled her mind. She could still feel the soothing weight of Sandor’s arms around her back, the warmth of his chest against her cheek. She was certain she could have slept there all night, safe from her own dreams in his aura of protection. The attraction she felt toward him for years was growing broader and deeper every day. His gravelly voice, his coarse words, his clean-smelling sweat, his strong brow, his broad shoulders, his night black hair, his slate gray eyes... He radiated manliness in every sense of the word and standing next to him always made her feel like the little lady she once was, the lady she had to leave behind in order to survive the past few years. After Littlefinger and Ramsay, she was certain she’d never be able to open herself up to a man, never feel the flood of desire she felt years ago for Derik Cassel, then for Joffrey Baratheon, and eventually for Sandor Clegane. Yet as soon as the latter walked back into her life that familiar warmth returned to her, bringing with it both shame and hope.

She thought back to when she watched him sparring with Brienne the other day. His lightness of foot would have been impressive for a man half his size, while the tall and broad figure he struck was awe-inspiring. Through his tunic she could see his back, arm, and chest muscles flexing and rippling. The cords of his neck bulged whenever he lifted his sword. In his shadow Ser Jaime and Ser Beric – who were strong and tall in their own right – looked less than men.

Sansa felt the heat building in her woman’s place as her thoughts went to an even less proper place. She imagined Sandor fighting in nothing but breeches. She could clearly picture the ridges of his abdomen and the perfect taper of his torso down to the waist of his breeches… and what laid beneath. She knew of the bloodlust of men and wondered if after a particularly strenuous day of training men felt similarly _stimulated._ She imagined him entering her quarters unbidden, taking her hard and fast against the wall – no words being spoken – the lust in her eyes being the only permission he needed.

She began touching herself to relieve the building pressure, wishing it was Sandor’s calloused fingers giving her the friction she needed. She tried to maintain the mental images as her physical pleasure grew. Now she saw him placing her backside on the table, freeing his arms to tear open her dress and bodice without losing the rhythm of his thrusts.

As she felt herself about to peak, her real-life fears infiltrated her fantasies. She wanted to imagine herself beautiful, wanted to picture Sandor’s eyes drinking in her perfect form, but she knew in actuality his reaction would be quite different. He’d immediately notice the smattering of ugly scars and would pull away from her in either disgust or rage. He would leave, and the next day would pretend nothing had happened, that he hadn’t been inside her body only hours before.

Sansa stood up from her chair, frustrated by the inevitable failure of her attempted self-pleasuring. She was wide awake and still determined to not fall asleep, to not let the Night King find purchase in her dreams. Unwittingly her thoughts returned to Sandor. Even setting aside her physical attraction to him she wanted to be near him. She had become accustomed to his evening company roaming around the Godswood and Glass Gardens of Winterfell, then sharing stories by the campfire on their journey to the Wall. His presence was the elixir that brought sleep to her.

After pacing her quarters for at least an hour she found herself standing at Sandor’s door. She was certain he’d be asleep by now and had no intention of rousing him. She just wanted to look upon him, to feel pacified by his presence before returning to her room and surrendering to her body’s need for rest. She opened his door quietly and entered, the sound of his steady breathing confirming her suspicion.

Suddenly she felt panicked… _What if he wakes and sees me standing her, watching him? How will I explain that?_ Her brain told her to return to her room, but she was stuck to the spot. She needed just a peek at him, like this, as so few people had ever seen him. She tiptoed closer and watched him sleep for a minute, bare chest rising and falling, face turned sideways into his pillow. He looked so serene in his slumber that Sansa felt calmed. She was tempted to lay on the end of his bed like a housecat, surely the proximity of this hulking man would keep her nightmares at bay, but the idea of having to explain herself to him in the morning was embarrassing enough to make her blush just thinking about it.

_So I won’t stay, I’ll just watch him a few more minutes._

Stepping carefully even closer, Sandor’s scars were visible before her. It had been a long time since they frightened her, but in his relaxed state, beneath the faint glow of moonlight, they almost looked… _pleasing_. Especially the ones that pulled one half of his mouth into a permanent scowl.

_I wonder what they feel like._

_I_ must _be sleep deprived, because I want to kiss those burnt lips. I want to know what they feel like. I just need to know…_

Curiosity winning out over common sense, Sansa brought herself even closer to stand right at the edge of his mattress, the side his sleeping eyes were facing. She gathered her hair in her hand and, without letting any part of her body touch the mattress, leaned down, painfully slowly, and planted a feather light kiss on the burnt side of his mouth. It was hardly a kiss, truly, more like touching him with her lips, but he awoke instantly, and his large hands found her arms to hold them away from his body before his mind could have possibly realized what just transpired.

All she could do was stare at him wide-eyed and watch as awareness drifted over his face. He loosened his grip but kept his hands on her upper arms. After a moment his thumbs began lightly moving up and down – the tiniest of caresses but it was encouragement enough for her. She leaned to kiss him again, his arms bending at the elbow to allow it. At first, he was frozen, mouth firm against her lips, but she persisted and eventually he returned her kiss with a gentleness she’d never have expected from such a coarse man.

She allowed him to pull her down carefully, so they laid on their sides, facing each other, her bent arms in the little space between them, hands clasped together as if in prayer. “Little bird” is all he said after an eternity of silence. She said nothing.

Tentatively he put a kiss on her neck, just below her ear… then another… and another… There was a pause after each dusting of lips against skin, undoubtedly expecting a rejection. But none came, and he grew more confident, continuing to kiss down her neck to her collar bone with dry, closed lips. He would go no further _south_ though, it would seem, as he returned his head to his pillow, eyes locked on hers.

It was her turn to be the explorer now. She traced her slender fingertips along his jaw, scratching her nails lightly into his short beard on the unburnt side of his face – the side he placed upward when laying them down moments ago. Her hand traveled down and rested centered on his chest, over the strong heart beating wildly in his chest. Unwittingly, the corner of her mouth curled up. The sight of her smile seemed to ignite a passion in him, as he kissed her lips, this time seeking entrance with his tongue. She permitted the entry and their tongues danced, hesitantly at first, then with a hunger that she did not know he possessed. Sansa’s right hand stayed anchored at his chest as her left hand gripped his bicep, enjoying the movement of muscle below skin as he stroked her back.

During the many minutes spent kissing and nipping each other’s lips, Sansa felt the warmth return to her woman’s place, gradually intensifying into a dull ache. As if sensing her arousal Sandor’s hand slid down the back of her thigh, which he kneaded gently through the fabric of her gown before pulling it to rest on his hip. A growl rumbled in his throat at the feeling of her leg wrapping around him. She began to mewl as Sandor’s hand found its way under the bottom hem of her gown to drag his long fingers slowly up the back of her calf to her thigh. For her part, Sansa dusted her fingertips over the coarse hair covering his chest before brushing her knuckles along the ridges of his abdominal muscles. Sandor’s lips again found her long neck and he began covering it with wet, open-mouthed kisses. At the sound of her moans Sandor grasped her backside and pulled her hips toward him firmly.

Feeling Sandor’s engorged manhood pressing against her inner thigh Sansa suddenly tensed. She tried to force the images out of her mind but couldn’t stop the bile rising in her throat as she recalled the way Petyr would press himself against her to communicate his need: his way of telling her it was time to earn her keep – with her hand, or her mouth, or, after Harry’s death, her body. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the unwelcome but inevitable invasion of her body.

\--------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

He felt it moment it happened. The woman who’d just been heatedly kissing and caressing him was gone, leaving in place only a female body that was in some parts rigid and in other parts lifeless. Her eyes were clenched shut tightly, her hands were squeezed into fists, her shoulders and neck tense as a bow string, but her hips and legs – specifically the one draped over his torso, were completely limp. It was as if she had two minds – one resisting this _act_ they were about to perform while the other was not welcoming, but _compliant._ Sandor didn’t have to know the details of her past to know she was not present, with him, right now. She was somewhere else, with someone else who had hurt her in this way, and it made him sick to know his body was the proxy for whoever that man was – Ramsay, Littlefinger, Joffrey, Harrold – who could say? There were so many suspects.

“Little bird…” She didn’t respond.

_What the fuck do I do?_

“Sansa, it’s me, it’s Sandor. I’m not going to hurt you… I’m not going to do _anything_ to you.”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

“Sansa, _please_ , come back to me. Open your eyes and look, girl, it’s me.”

 _What if she_ knows _it’s you? What if it’s_ you _she fears? What if she’s remembering that night… the night of the Blackwater…?_

“Sansa, little bird, it’s me, it’s Sandor Clegane. We’re at Castle Black, Theon’s in the next room, Brienne, Jaime… your brother, Jon! He’s here. You’re safe, girl. Fuck, you’re safe! I swear I only kissed you!” By now he was desperate; words were not lifting the trance, so instead he shook her. Hard.

Her eyes snapped open so fast it startled him, but he recovered quickly, resuming his gentle words “It’s me, girl, you’re alright. Nothing happened. No one is hurting you… It’s alright.”

As she came to consciousness, she jumped out of the bed so quickly he’d have thought it was on fire. Tears were streaming down her face and he stood to approach her, but she only backed away.

When she spoke her voice was not laced with fear as he’d expect it to be, but with apology, shame even, though her words were just ramblings – starts and stops of sentences. “I’m sorry… I-I can’t… I shouldn’t have… I- I’m so… so… just so fucking _tired_ …”

He knew the kind of tired she meant. _Not sleep-weary,_ life _-weary… Tired of living, tired of pain, tired of the never-ending shite the Gods pile at our feet just to watch us trudge through it…_

“I’m sorry Sandor, I am so sorry. Please don’t…”

_Hate you? Tell anyone?_

She didn’t finish her plea, she just left so quickly the bottom of her cloak lifted up in its wearer’s wake.

He knew she didn’t want him to follow but his feet made their way to her door of their own accord, only a minute after she’d closed it behind her.

He entered without knocking and found her sitting against the stone wall, hugging her knees and sobbing. Her rambling persisted, though not directed at him. Maybe directed at herself, or her Gods, or the dead father she liked to confide in. “I can’t do it, I’m sorry but I can’t do this. I’m so tired of this, tired of being afraid.” She shook her head without removing her forehead from her knees. “When will it _end_?” Finally she looked up, not at him but at the ceiling, or perhaps the Heavens above. He wasn’t sure she was even fully aware of his presence as she continued, “When will it be enough?” Her head dropped again to her knees as sobs shook her entire body.

He was desperate to comfort her but ill-equipped to do so.

_Get Theon, get Jon. Don’t just stand there, you fool!_

But they’d ask why he was here, in her room. Or they’d ask _her_ why she was crying, and she’d say, “It’s because that big fucking brute put his lips and his hands all over my body.”

 _But she wanted me to, didn’t she? She came to_ my _room. She kissed me. I wasn’t even awake!_

 _Yes, but she’s just a girl. A girl who’s seen too much. You’re the adult, you’re the one who should know not to take advantage of her in her…_ state _. Hells, Theon even warned you about this!_

Sandor thought back to the few times throughout his life when a drunken wench or serving girl would wantonly throw herself at him. The wine would blind her to his scars. Through her blurred vision she’d only see his height and breadth and think it would be fun to take him for a ride. He’d never taken the bait, though. It never sat right with him, felt too much like _rape_ – and he was not his brother.

_And yet, there you were, about to stick your prick in Sansa fucking Stark, whose mind has been so twisted by fucking cunts like Ramsay Bolton that she might as well be a drunk._

The irony that it was she – the one woman he actually respected and cared about – that almost pushed him to a new low point in his life, was not lost on him. It was that very care that made him so weak. He could resist a lowly wench, but if _she_ invited him into her body, into her heart, he could not stay away.

 _You’re stronger than that. She needs you to be stronger than that. Be her protector, be her confidante, her advisor, her friend… be anything she asks of you, but don’t be_ that _…_

But he knew that was a vow he’d not be able to uphold forever, so he amended his own promise: _At_ _least not_ now _… not until and unless she comes to you out of true desire, not some confused notion of what she wants from a man…_

_…Like that will ever happen._

During Sandor’s internal debate the little bird had not stopped sobbing. Her ramblings worried him deeply. She sounded like someone who’d given up on life. He sat down against the wall beside her before pulling her trembling body into the space between his outstretched legs. He pulled her back flush to his chest and met no resistance as he encased her in his long arms. He took deep breaths, forcing his chest back and forth against her back until soon she unknowingly mimicked his breathing pattern. He felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. After several minutes her head dropped to the side, cheek to his chest, and she turned her body slightly to follow. Her arms were wrapped around her own waist so all her weight was leaned against him, but he could take it. He wrapped her cloak around her more snuggly then returned his arms to their position around her shoulders.

_The Stranger himself couldn’t pry her out of my hands._

\--------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa woke to a smell that was both familiar and foreign, but distinctly calming. Before opening her eyes, she breathed in deeply several times. It smelled like Lady’s fur after she’d spent the day outside. It smelled like her father’s skin when he carried her back to her chambers after she’d wandered into her parents’ bed. It smelled like air and leather and sweat. She wanted to keep her eyes shut to the world and stay here breathing in the aroma forever, but she became aware of a dull ache in her neck and lower back, and the tingling of pins and needles in her feet and bottom.

As consciousness claimed her, she opened her eyes and found it was not a _thing_ she was laying against, but a person. She looked up at the sleeping face of Sandor Clegane, mortified as memories of the prior evening rushed to her mind. She remembered kissing – which _she_ initiated – and moaning, then crying, then strong arms wrapped around her.

As she carefully extracted herself from the man who’d served as her pillow for the night, she saw him stirring out of the corner of her eye.

_Fuck._

She covered her face in shame and was about to apologize when he mercifully interrupted her, “Look, before you get all embarrassed and then avoid me for the next sennight, let me let me save you some trouble: there’s nothing to apologize for. If anything, I should have stopped it – stopped _us_.”

He clarified, “I mean, you didn’t force me to do anything. We’re both… lonely, and what we did, or started doing – well it was nothing I didn’t want to happen… There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“And as for me spending the night here, I wasn’t about to leave you alone in the state you were in, it’s my duty to protect you, even from yourself, and from your ghosts. If you think I’m mad at you, I’m not. The only one I’m mad at is the bastard who hurt you.”

“Bastard _s_ ” she impulsively corrected. For a moment he was speechless. She realized that was about as much as she’d ever shared with him about _that_ aspect of her past.

Taking a moment to collect himself he stood, helping her up as well. “Right, well I’d like to kill _every_ bastard whose ever laid a finger on you, then do it a thousand more times until my arms fall off. Perhaps if I somehow redeem my useless soul the Gods will see fit to grant me an eternal afterlife of killing all the fuckers that hurt my little bird, over and over again until I’m satisfied. Which I may never be.” He concluded his speech with a wink.

His words would sound violent and harsh to anyone’s ears, but to Sansa it was the sweetest poetry. She closed the gap between them and threw her arms around his waist, pressing her face once more into his bare chest. She mumbled a barely audible “Thank you”.

Sandor placed a chaste kiss on the crown of her head, then pushed her away gently. “I’ve got preparations to make little bird, and you need to spend the rest of your time here with your brother, get everything sorted.”

She nodded, then slowly opened the door to check that the hall was empty. Sandor left quickly and in five long strides was at his door, entering without pause.

Sansa shut her door then leaned against it. After the prior evening she should feel shame, or regret, or sadness, but instead she felt… _giddy_. As with her first innocent kiss – with the handsome Derik Cassel – her tummy fluttered with excitement. Denying her affection toward him was useless. Though she was admittedly inexperienced with _lovers_ , she’d had enough men around her over the years to know her feelings for him weren’t simply those of a naïve girl falling for the first handsome boy who looks her way.

_For one, he isn’t handsome, and I’m not naïve anymore._

But he _was_ handsome, to her at least. The exact moment he became so she could not say but he had somehow transformed into something she enjoyed looking upon. And now that she’d seen his _physique_ more closely there was no way she could deny his magnetism. She was secretly thankful no other woman had noticed how attractive he was – surely, she’d never have let him go.

As she pictured his arms and chest and the hard plane of his abdomen, one of his comments about the prior night popped into her mind: _he said he’d wanted it to happen!_ That wasn’t entirely true, she knew. He said it was ‘nothing he didn’t want to happen’… but wasn’t that the same thing as _wanting_ it _to_ happen _?_

With an energy she was not accustomed to at this hour of the morning she hummed a melody and dressed for the day.


	38. Hopes and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa dares to think about the future

**Sandor**

_Bugger me with a hot poker._

He _thought_ – despite his morning speech and the resultant hug – that the prior evening’s events would have scared the little bird away from him. He expected her to blush and turn away every time their eyes met, but all morning she’d been doing the opposite – holding his gaze until finally _he_ tore _his_ eyes away. He thought she would try to avoid him at all costs but instead, as he went about his daily tasks, they crossed paths more than once – and it seemed to be no accident. Most shocking of all, while he observed her wearing her mask with everyone else, she seemed to let it slip whenever she looked upon him – offering him the faintest of smiles the way a whore flashes her goods to lure in a customer.

And he did not like the attention…

He _loved_ it.

Beneath all his self-directed vows he knew he wanted desperately for her to return his affection. He once again rationalized his way out of his own promise: _I’m no Septon, I’m not married, if she wants to spend time with me, to kiss me, to touch me, to…_

No, he wouldn’t let himself think _that_ far… that was more hope than he was willing to permit himself.

 _But whatever she wants to do, I’ll go slow. No – I’ll let_ her _set the pace. I won’t kiss her first. I won’t touch her first. I won’t grind against her – she’ll have to grind her pretty little cunt against me if she wants me in that way. She’ll have to unlace my breeches and guide my dripping cock right to her entrance – right_ into _her entrance, if that’s what she wants._

A loud crash echoed through the courtyard and Sandor jerked his head toward the source of the noise. The ever-timid squire, Podrick, had dropped a crate of supplies he had been carrying to the stables. Sandor was supposed to be helping to haul the crates but realized he’d been standing there for some minutes, thinking about the little bird’s lips and… other parts. Podrick was staring at him, face red as a beet, and Sandor looked down at himself to see a revealing bulge between his legs. 

Adjusting himself he nodded at the dropped crate in front of Podrick, “Arms not working today?”

Podrick scurried to pick up the crate and practically ran it into the stables. It was one of the talents Sandor was most proud of: the ability to turn what should be an embarrassing moment for _him_ into an embarrassing moment for the _other_ _guy_ , with naught but few well-chosen words and a scowl.

\----------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Her bed was calling her, despite the nightmares she knew sleep would bring, but Sansa had much to do. After spending the day planning with Jon and the others she had a list of tasks to complete.

It was decided that, since Winterfell would be the location of their last stand should the Wall be breached, Sansa’s party would bring many supplies and weapons back with them on their homebound journey. At this moment Jon would be in his quarters sending a letter to White Harbor, instructing them to forward the next dragonglass shipment to Castle Cerwyn rather than letting them continue on the ship to Eastwatch by the Sea where The Night’s Watch harbor was located.

Sansa had her own letters to write. The first contained detailed instructions for the Mormont sisters to begin collecting food and supplies from the nearby farms and villages. In the event of a hurried retreat to Winterfell the smallfolk would not have time to gather and transport their belongings. She tasked Lyanna with keeping an accurate accounting so that all goods could be returned if not needed.

She also instructed Alysane to return to Bear Island and prepare to receive refugees – children, the elderly, and others unfit to fight. On the island they’d be safe from the wights who Jon believed could not pass through water. Sansa sent a letter to invite her friend, Beth Cassel, to travel to Winterfell soon. She would need Beth’s help making a list of those people who would need to travel to Bear Island in the event of a breach, and to collect adequate supplies to send with them. Bear Island was rich in resources but would have a hard time supporting a sudden burst in population.

Sansa sent letters to the Northern vassals who she expected would fight with them: Glover, Karstark, Manderly, Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Umber, as well as Val who ruled the Dreadfort in Tormund’s absence (and, less officially, in his presence). She implored the lords and ladies to begin preparations _quietly._ Sansa was not ready for word of the threat to reach the crown, for fear Cersei would find the North’s distraction an opportune time for her own attack. For the same reason she refrained from sending ravens to the more southern of her vassals, whose proximity to the Riverlands made her question their true loyalty now that Tywin Lannister influenced the region through Sansa’s uncle, Edmure Tully. The only of those lords she sent ravens to were Howland Reed and Derik Cassel, who she trusted implicitly.

Her mind was so occupied that she realized she’d hardly pondered the previous night’s awkward encounter with Sandor. She wanted to be ashamed of her wanton and then traumatized actions but where the shame should be, she instead found excitement. Sandor’s actions and words this morning proved that he returned her attraction and – dare she believe it – her affection. A man who was only interested in a physical _encounter_ wouldn’t have spent the night holding and comforting her. Sansa couldn’t help but feel like she’d won a great prize in earning his favor. Sandor possessed the physical prowess and intoxicating masculinity of the Hound, but with a compassion and ability to give and receive affection that was not present in him in King’s Landing.

Just as she’d begun to feel a hopefulness she hadn’t experienced in years, the familiar doubts came knocking on the door of her mind. After last night she was uncertain she was physically capable of being intimate with a man without painful memories overtaking her body. She suspected that under the right conditions and with the right person she could feel safe enough to engage in a physical coupling – and she knew Sandor would be patient and gentle enough to take that journey with her. But that led to another issue – she was unwilling to let anyone look upon her naked body. At minimum the scars were unattractive, but in Sandor’s case they would be infuriating; they would steal whatever lust he had for Sansa and replace it with not just rage but also – knowing him as she did – guilt. Sansa was disheartened until she remembered her Septa teaching her that a kind husband might let his wife remain dressed during their coupling, at least the first time, to lessen her discomfort.

 _I can play shy and lay with him without removing my night gown!_ But as quickly as the idea struck her it dropped away. That plan might work for one or two encounters, but is that really all she wanted from him? This last notion might have been the greatest of her concerns. What truly _did_ she want with him? She hadn’t yet thought on this topic. As a Queen she could marry whomever she liked, but would she lose some of her people’s respect by choosing such a disadvantageous match? They might respect Sandor as a soldier and commander, but he brought no claims or lands other than Clegane Keep, a modest homestead near Casterly Rock in the Westerlands.

And would Sandor even want to marry? She’d never heard him speak of marriage and suspected he pitied the men _stupid_ enough to let themselves be bound by their duty to their wives and children. And even if he were willing to take a bride, he certainly despised the idea of being a Lord, much less a _King!_

 _A lover, then? Could I be_ that _kind of Queen?_

She knew it was not uncommon for Kings and Queens to take lovers, and Sansa suspected she could do it herself, but what would happen if she someday wanted to marry another? Sandor did not strike her as the type willing to share anything so precious as his little bird.

_But I don’t need to marry… I’ve already told my vassals I may never do so… Sandor and I could live out the rest of our lives enjoying each other’s company without complicating it with the shared responsibility of ruling a kingdom… At night I will keep his counsel, he will keep my bed, but by day we will have our own duties. Yes, that could work…_

Sansa began laughing at her own childishness. In a matter of minutes she’d gone from wondering if she was even capable of being intimate with Sandor to planning a lifetime affair with him.

In a better mood though no less exhausted she returned her attention to her letters. Her hand ached but it was important that these all go out the next day.

…

> _He is close, closer than he’s ever been. She is running with all her might and, as always, he gets closer with every step even though he never moves at a pace greater than a stroll. When she turns, she can see he is just a few yards away. He is so close she can see the deep lines in his face, the puckering of skin around his mouth, the curve of his nose. Her legs are tired, she’s been running for hours, maybe days. She collapses in the snow but does not give up. She crawls through the snow like a dog. The snow bites her fingers, but she doesn’t care, she will gladly sacrifice all her fingers and toes, hands and feet if she can just get away. For the first time she can hear him speak and knows he is even closer, maybe just a few feet away. She turns over so she can see him as she desperately crabwalks backwards. He is so close, right above her. He speaks to her again though his lips do not move._
> 
> _“Sansa. Stop running.”_
> 
> _“No! Get away!” she shouts though knows it is useless._
> 
> _His arm slowly reaches down toward her. With the little reserve of energy she has left she stands, unwilling to die on her back._
> 
> _“Come with me.”_
> 
> _“No!”_
> 
> _She is walking backwards, still just inches out of his reach. Suddenly her back hits something solid. For a fleeting moment she thinks it is Sandor come to her rescue. She turns to look at him but sees only the gray-brown bark of dead a tree. She screams and when she turns forward again sees the man is reaching for her face. She raises her arms to block the imminent contact, and immediately feels a searing pain on her left forearm. She screams again and opens her eyes to see the man has grasped her just below the wrist. His hand is as tight as a vice, and steam is pouring off her skin._

“Aaahh!”

The sound of Sansa’s own weak scream woke her abruptly. She sat up in her chair and immediately recalled the pain of the dream. Her right hand instinctively clasped her left arm. Of all the nightmares she had, this one was the most vivid, the most real. She could still feel the burning pain where the Night King – if that’s indeed who it was – had grabbed her. She rose to pour herself a cup of water and drank it as she willed her nerves to settle. Her heart rate slowed, and she caught her breath, but the pain in her arm had not lessened. She pulled back the sleeve of her night gown and gasped at the sight she could plainly see even in her dimly lit room. Looking at the inside of her wrist she saw a set of horizontal lines of raised red flesh in the shape of four fingers and a thumb. Turning her arm over she saw a single, larger burn – a palm print. Sansa quickly lowered her sleeve in fear of looking upon the ghastly wound another moment.

_I must still be dreaming. That’s it!_

She looked around her room as if to find some evidence that she was still asleep, but everything looked all too real – none of the telltale oddities that would normally differentiate dream from reality. As an additional test she slapped her cheek hard with her right hand. It stung, but nothing changed. She did not wake.

_I’m already awake. This isn’t a dream… but how is this possible? How can something – someone – in a dream hurt my body in real life?_

Without allowing herself another moment for contemplation she walked down the hall to Jon’s quarters and entered without knocking.


	39. An Unexpected Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor arrives to offer counsel

**Sandor**

It was to be their last day at Castle Black. They would depart the next morning at dawn. Sansa half-heartedly thanked Sandor, Podrick, and Theon for their diligent effort at preparing for the return journey. Sandor noted his queen once again looked horrible – or as horrible as someone so pretty could ever look. The dark circles were back beneath her eyes, which were swollen and red-rimmed.

Even more disturbing was her behavior. All morning as they broke their fast her eyes were darting around fervently as if looking for an assassin. She frequently glanced at Jon, who seemed to share some of her mysterious concern, but she didn’t maintain eye contact with anyone else in her group, including Sandor himself. She barely ate but drank two cups of warm ale. Sandor was clearly not the only one to notice her strange behavior. He saw Brienne and Jaime exchange bewildered glances, as did Beric and Thoros. Even Tormund who seemed immune to anyone else’s eccentricities eyed Sansa a few times with a look of concern in his usually jovial eyes.

If Sansa noticed their discomfort, she did not address it or even seem to care. Before anyone had even finished their meals, she told them it was time to assemble in Jon’s chambers for their final day of planning. Sandor was to join them this day.

As the group walked across the courtyard Sandor heard some commotion near the South Gate – apparently an unexpected visitor was requesting entrance. One of the guards shouted to Jon that it was a single rider and – even more surprisingly – a woman. Jon gave permission to open the gate.

The woman who entered rode a beautiful white steed that seemed impervious to the mud and dust that turned similar horses to dingy shades of gray and beige. A steward helped her dismount and she did not hesitate to stride directly to where Jon and Sansa stood. Sandor stepped closer to his queen.

The woman had dark auburn hair and reddish-brown eyes. She wore a deep burgundy cloak over a dress of the same color. She oozed elegance despite having just traveled all the way to the Wall from who-knows-where, seemingly without escort.

She bowed and addressed Jon while keeping her eyes on Sansa. “Lord Commander Snow, I am Melisandre, a humble servant and priestess of R’Hllor. I’ve been sent by the Lord of Light to deliver important information to the woman touched by ice, and the man touched by fire.” She paused, allowing them to take in her words.

 _Woman touched by ice? She must be talking about Sansa._ Sandor recalled men referring to her as the ‘Ice Queen’ due to her aloof demeanor during court, and coldness in dealing with her enemies. _The man touched by fire must be Tormund_. The Wildlings referred to redheads, like Tormund, as being ‘kissed by fire’. Tormund was the only red-haired man here, or at least the only one Sandor could imagine a mysterious visitor might seek out.

Jon opened his mouth to speak before suddenly turning to look directly at Sandor, staring intently as if trying to convey a silent message.

_What’s he looking at me for?_

_Oh… I’m the man touched by fire… literally._

Before either man could inquire, Thoros approached them hastily, and bowed his head at the woman, who responded with a slight nod. She then pivoted to face Sansa and Sandor and fell into a deep curtsy, keeping her eyes lowered to the ground in submission as she spoke, “My queen, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and my Lord, Sandor Clegane. I have travelled long and far to meet you. The Lord of Light, in his infinite wisdom, has sent me to aid you in any way I can in preparation for the battle to come – the battle of life versus death, of light versus darkness. I beg you to accept my counsel, for the sake of the realm.”

Sandor spoke first with his usual retort. “I’m not a Lord.”

Ignoring Sandor, Thoros addressed Sansa, “Your grace, I’ve known Lady Melisandre for a very long time. She is a Red Priestess and serves none but R'hllor. If she says she is here to help, then she is here to help. I’d advise you to heed her counsel.”

Sansa finally spoke. Her wariness from earlier had disappeared behind her mask of impassive courtesy. “I’ll decide whether your counsel is to be heeded after I hear it, but I _will_ hear it, my lady. Come, let us speak inside where it’s warm. I’m sure you’d prefer to rest after your journey, but we depart at dawn on the morrow, so our time together is limited, I’m afraid.”

“I appreciate your concern, my queen, but the Lord of Light gives me all the warmth and energy that I need. I am eager to speak with you as soon as possible.”

By now a small crowd had assembled to observe the display. Jon ordered them to return to their duties before leading Sansa, Melisandre, and a few others into the main hall. Jon, Sam, and the other officers took their usual seats at the high table, though Jon had hesitated for a moment. Sansa sat down at the table nearest to Jon’s, and Thoros and Melisandre sat across from her. Sandor, Beric, Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion, and Theon sat at a table off to the left side of the room.

Tormund, who wasn’t explicitly invited, sauntered in last and didn’t hide his suspiciousness of the Red Priestess as he sat down heavily next to Sansa. Sansa eyed him but did not object to his presence or proximity. All sat in silence while two stewards poured each person a cup of either water or warm ale. Once the stewards left the room, Melisandre began her tale…

“My queen, for many moons the Lord of Light has shown me visions of the Night King’s army in the far north…”

Her awareness of the Night King made Sandor shiver.

“…Some of these visions seem to be of events that have already taken place. Others are premonitions of events yet to occur. It isn’t always clear to me which are of the past and which are of the future, though perhaps you and your companions can help me sort that out. I’ve had so many of these visions that it would take all day and night for me to recount them all to you, even in summary, thus I’ll focus on those that I believe will have the greatest impact on our shared fate.”

Melisandre paused, collected her thoughts, then proceeded. “I’ve seen the size of the army, which perhaps you’re aware is well over 100,000 strong…” Sansa and Tormund nodded.

“I’ve seen men of the Night’s Watch fighting some of them. I’ve seen you…” She pointed her chin in Sam’s direction, “…killing a White Walker with a dragonglass dagger.”

Jon spoke up, “that happened over a year ago.”

Melisandre nodded and continued, “I’ve seen _you_ , Lord Commander, killing a White Walker with a Valyrian steel longsword.”

Jon again spoke, “Aye, my lady, that also happened in the past, albeit more recently. We call them the Night King’s generals.”

“Then I assume you now know the most efficient way to kill the wights is to kill the general who turned them. And the only way to kill _any_ of the them – the wights or the White Walkers, is with weapons forged of either Valyrian steel or dragonglass. Fire also works on the wights, but not the generals, and not the Night King himself.”

“Aye, my lady. I killed a wight here in the former Lord Commander’s chambers with fire from a lantern. As for the weapons, we’ve been forging dragonglass weapons day and night. The dragonglass is supplied to us by Daenerys Targaryen herself.” Jon glanced up at Sansa as he spoke the dragon queen’s name, but his sister’s face betrayed none of her thoughts.

Melisandre let out a small sigh, “The Lord of Light has not shown me that, but I’m relieved to hear it.”

She took a sip of water, then resumed her account, “I also saw a vision of a time long past. It was the birth of the Night King himself, the day he turned from a First Man into… well into the being he is today. Some Children of the Forest drove a dragonglass dagger directly into his heart. Their magic, which is infused in all dragonglass, turned him into the Night King. I then saw him begin his exodus north, adding to his army with every person he encountered. Many a man fought him, but none succeeded in killing him, obviously.”

Sandor spoke for the first time since entering the hall, “So how did he come to have an army so large, turning people one by one? Valyrian steel was more common back then, surely at some point he faced a Lord or Knight with a Valyrian blade…”

Melisandre nodded, “How indeed, Lord Clegane? Which brings me to another vision, one which is particularly relevant to your queen… Along the Night King’s journey, he’d occasionally encounter a great warrior, a man who fought so fiercely that the Night King knew his skills would be wasted as a mindless wight. These men would instead be turned into White Walkers, his generals: each imbued with his own power to turn the living into wights. If my visions are correct, generals can make wights, but cannot make other White Walkers – only the Night King himself has that power, literally at the tip of his finger. And it seems to me that he is very selective in who he chooses as a general. That part I don’t fully understand; perhaps only the strongest men are even _capable_ of being turned into White Walkers – that is my theory.” Melisandre eyed Sansa before turning to address Jon, “Tell me, Lord Snow, after you killed the White Walker, do only four remain?”

“Aye, I’ve only seen four generals, in addition to the Night King himself.”

Melisandre nodded, “In my visions, I’ve seen as many as eight generals at one time, but only four seem to exist today.”

For the first time Tormund spoke, with a hint of pride in his voice. “Aye, every Free Folk babe is raised on tales of our ancient heroes, who’ve slayed White Walkers with dragonglass over the centuries… Ain’t easy, though.”

The First Builder, Othell Yarwyck, spoke up with some irritation in his tone, “Pardon, my lady, but so far every _vision_ you’ve described only confirms what we’ve already learned ourselves, or echoes tales that every Northern child has heard from a grandmother or Septa for thousands of years. Surely you didn’t come all this way to tell us what we already know.”

Melisandre bristled at his words but kept her tone measured, “Indeed not, my lord. As I said at the outset, much of this I expected you’d already known or in some cases lived through, but I wanted to make sure our understandings were aligned before getting to the more… _unsettling_ visions.”

At this everyone shifted uncomfortably, except Sansa who was as still as a statue.

Melisandre deliberated, seemingly pondering which bad news to deliver first. Finally, she spoke, “My lords and ladies, I regret to inform you, but the Wall _will_ fall.”

Murmurs filled the room, but Lord Yarwyck spoke above them all, “The Wall has stood for thousands of years! How can it fall?!”

Melisandre shook her head, “I do not know. The Lord of Light did not show me _how_ it falls, he only showed me ice and snow cascading down like an avalanche, falling away into the sea… visions of the future tend to be less _complete_ than visions of the past.”

Everyone present exchanged glances and mumbles. Sandor felt the sudden urge to throw the little bird over his shoulder, hop on Stranger’s back, and ride hard and fast to the south. _We’ll ride to White Harbor and sail for Braavos. Bugger the rest of them, they’re on their own._

Jaime appeared to be the only person with the presence of mind to formulate a question, “My lady, you say the Wall will fall, and more specifically fall into the sea. We’ve been anticipating and planning for a breach – either through the gates or over the top – it seems highly unlikely that even a force as large as what the Night King has assembled could _fell_ the great Wall.”

Everyone murmured their agreement, but Melisandre pressed on, “I understand it sounds unlikely – unbelievable, even – I am merely telling you what I’ve been shown by the Lord of Light… just like all the other visions I’ve just described, which you’ve all corroborated.”

Sandor shifted his weight nervously from foot to foot, his fingers instinctively touching the hilt of his sword. Sansa, as if sensing his thoughts, turned to face him for the first time since the Red Priestess had begun her tales. Addressing Melisandre but facing Sandor, she calmly asked, “Your visions of the future, do they always come true?”

It was now Melisandre who appeared uneasy, perhaps knowing that the wrong answer could cause the group to doubt everything she’d said – and everything she had yet to tell. She replied slowly, “The Lord of Light shows us what we _need_ to see. Our fate is not _sealed_ , so to speak… our actions _can_ change it, in theory, but my queen,” Melisandre exhaled loudly, “if he showed me the Wall falling, then the Wall _will_ fall.” Thoros nodded soberly.

A somber quiet fell on the group before Tormund spoke with conviction, “You say we _can_ change the future, that’s it’s at least possible... So we _can_ stop them from destroying the Wall! We should gather all our forces, raise all the Stark bannermen, and face the army of the dead. We will face them north of the Wall as we’d planned with the Dragon Queen. If we kill enough of them, even if most of us perish, perhaps they’ll be too weakened to fell the Wall!”

Sansa was quick to voice her dissent. “If all our armies go north of the Wall we will leave our Houses completely vulnerable. The Lannisters and their allies will seize the opportunity. The only reason we’ve been spared their wrath this long is because Tywin Lannister is too smart to siege Winterfell during Winter, and with Daenerys bearing down on him.”

“But if we focus our attack on the generals and the Night King himself, we stand a chance... For each general we kill, thousands – perhaps _tens_ of thousands – of wights will perish. This is our chance to _end_ them, once and for all. Not just for us, but for future generations.”

Sansa shook her head, “And what will come of those future generations? Even if we’re successful in killing the Night King and all his generals, our forces will be decimated. Who will be left to hunt, to farm, to protect the women and children? Every able-bodied man, and even many women would be needed to even stand a _chance_ against an army of this size. Even if all the Northern bannerman answer our call, even if they all send us _every_ man and woman that can wield sword or bow, that’s only thirty thousand people. Thirty thousand flesh and blood men and women against an enemy more than triple that size?! And I shouldn’t need to remind you that the dead will have other advantages: they’re impervious to the cold and snow; they’re not killed by normal blades and arrows. We’d need years to forge enough weapons to arm thirty thousand soldiers and archers, and we have but months by Jon’s estimates!”

“But we don’t _need_ to fight a hundred thousand wights! As I said, we throw our full force at the generals! And as for your enemies to the South, I understand your concern, but better to risk them claiming the North than to watch every Northerner turn into a fucking corpse!”

Sansa appeared to mull over his words, but Jon took up the argument, “You know killing the generals is not so easy, Tormund, you said so yourself just minutes ago. They do not expose themselves readily. They do not _need_ to expose themselves when they can let their wights do all the killing for them. My sister is right, meeting them head-on in battle won’t work, not with our numbers.”

“Pardon, my lords,” started Melisandre, “but I believe it would help if I shared with you another vision at this juncture….”

Tyrion, who’d been listening quietly to the entire exchange, interrupted her, “Wait, my lady, before you continue, please satisfy my curiosity: when you spoke of the generals, you said those details would be particularly relevant to Lady Sansa.”

Melisandre smiled warmly at the dwarf, “I see nothing escapes your notice, Lord Tyrion. As it were, this is directly related to what I was beginning to tell you.”

Tyrion gestured an outstretched hand to encourage her to proceed. Melisandre held his gaze, “Lord Commander Snow is correct. The generals and the Night King do not expose themselves readily, unless there is something to be gained by doing so, or they are convinced that the threat against them is minimal. In our case, the threat _is_ minimal. As Queen Sansa said, it would be highly unlikely we could summon even a fraction of their numbers, and even using fire against the wights, as I advise you to do, flames will not harm the White Walkers. So, again, the threat is minimal, and there _is_ something to be gained… something the Night King covets greatly and will expose himself in order to obtain…” Melisandre turned to face Sansa, “…you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps I'm lazy - giving Melisandre too much knowledge through her visions. Oh well. In my mind she's been having these visions for months if not longer, and they've gotten clearer as she's gotten closer to the wall.


	40. A Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is not pleased by what Melisandre has to say.

**Jaime**

A deafening silence filled the space. Sansa looked at Thoros, then Tormund, before her confused eyes traveled back to Melisandre, “Me?”

Melisandre nodded. “I’ve had a vision, my queen: I’ve seen the Night King reaching for you in the middle of a snow-covered yard. In this vision he is completely unaware of his surroundings, no doubt confident his wights and generals will strike down any attacker. He is solely focused on _you_. He wants _you_. I believe that he wishes to _turn_ you, not into a wight as he’ll do to the mass of dead bodies strewn about, but into a White Walker. He has only four generals now, which makes him vulnerable. He needs more, and he has chosen you. At least, this is what I believe, based on the vision.”

Sansa looked ghostly pale. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. Suddenly her eyes brightened, “But you said he only turns great warriors or knights – I am neither!”

A sad smile stretched across Melisandre’s full lips. “No. You are something much more potent: you are a _killer.”_

Sansa looked insulted. “I am not a _killer_. Yes, I’ve _killed_ , but I do so out of necessity, or duty. I don’t enjoy it, I’m not even good at it.” Sansa then looked around the room, eyes taking in each of her companions in turn. “You must be mistaken, my lady… In this room alone sit _six_ of the greatest warriors I’ve ever known, likely six of the greatest warriors the _world_ will ever know.” A rare sign of emotion – in this case, desperation – tainted Sansa’s words as she continued, “Your vision is wrong! Perhaps he seeks one of these warriors, who’d likely be near me during a battle, acting as my shield.”

Jon spoke quietly, “Sansa—”

She raised her hand to silence him, “No, Jon.” Turning to the Red Priestess she continued, “Lady Melisandre, I do not doubt your words, I believe you are telling us what you saw, but no one with a semblance of basic logic would think this _Night King_ would covet me above nearly any other person in this room, or over nearly any _soldier_ in the entire realm, for that matter…”

Melisandre reached across the table to grasp Sansa’s hands. “My queen. My lady. _Sansa_. You doubt my message because you doubt yourself. I told you you’re a killer…”

Sansa interrupted her, voice unsteady, “I doubt myself for good reason! Yes, I’m _decent_ with a bow, for a woman at least.” Jon again tried to interrupt but Sansa again hushed him, “…but I can hardly _lift_ a sword, much less wield it. I can’t swing an axe as nearly every Free woman can, and I’m barely passable with a dagger, despite Ser Jaime’s more than capable efforts at training.”

Melisandre was unyielding, as if Sansa had never interrupted. She was now speaking to Sansa alone, with a familiarity that would have been construed as improper by any other queen, “As I was saying, Sansa: you’re a killer. I’ve lived a very long time, child. I’ve seen every kind of person there is. There is a difference between a killer and a _fighter_. A warrior is a _fighter_. A warrior, or a knight, _becomes_ lethal. They train their body to become what they are. A _killer_ , however, isn’t _made_ ; they’re _born._ A killer isn’t deadly because of their skills with a sword, lance, or bow. They’re deadly because it’s in their blood, because it’s their _duty_ to kill, even when others cannot. It is a weight they must bear, unpleasant as it may be, because it’s a two-sided coin. On the flip side of killing is _surviving._ Surviving when all those around you perish, some by your hand, others against your wishes. You may not believe you’re a killer, Sansa, but even you can’t deny you are a survivor. You survived the Baratheons and Lannisters. You survived Petry Baelish, you survived the Boltons. You’ve survived many journeys and battles, while avoiding others against all odds.”

Sansa pulled her hands away as her eyes narrowed. She spit out her next words, “What would you know of what I’ve _survived?”_ Her tone made Jaime’s hairs stand on end.

Melisandre sighed wearily and sat back, “Because the Lord of Light has shown me those visions as well.”

Jon finally would not be silenced, “Sansa, you must show her what you showed me.”

Sansa didn’t move or speak. Clegane took a step toward her but stopped himself, “What is he speaking of, girl?”

Sansa looked at Jon again before dropping her head and exhaling in surrender. He took it as permission to speak on her behalf. Addressing no one in particular, he spoke in a level tone, describing the vivid dreams Sansa had told him of. He paused to take in the group’s reactions, which ranged from disbelief to concern to fright. Tormund looked pitifully at Sansa and placed his arm around her shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

Jaime spoke, challenging Jon’s assumptions that Sansa’s knowledge of the Night King proved some _connection_ to him, “Surely she’s heard enough tales of this Night King to have an idea what he looks like. Hells, even _I_ heard stories of White Walkers and I lived my entire life in the South. These nightmares sound perfectly normal, _expected_ even; after all she was coming here to discuss the threat of the Night King’s army.” Brienne and Sandor nodded vigorously, both wanting to believe these _nightmares_ were not so ominous as Jon was suggesting.

Jon stepped down from the high table and approached Sansa. He knelt next to her, but she did not turn to face him. He took her hand gently, as if touching a spooked horse. He turned it over and kissed her palm before saying, “I’m sorry sister, but you must show them. They need to see. It’s alright.” He continued rubbing her palm with his thumb, patiently waiting her response.

Jaime felt a pang of guilt, or perhaps envy. _That’s what siblings are supposed to look like. That’s how a brother comforts a sister._ With regret, he thought back on his interactions with his own sister Cersei over the years: all raw desire or raw anger – sometimes both, but never anything in between; never the tenderness and affection he was witnessing now. He tore his eyes away and noticed Tyrion was staring at him, knowingly. _How does he always know what’s going on in my head? My brother’s smarter than any man has the right to be._

Jaime quickly moved his eyes again, letting them fall on Theon, who was staring at his own feet. Jaime knew of his history with the Starks – how he’d been their ward for most of his life, raised alongside Robb, Jon, and Sansa, and later the younger Stark children. Lady Catelyn treated him more as a son than she did Jon. Later he betrayed Robb and all the Starks in a futile attempt to please his real father, Balon Greyjoy. Sansa had clearly forgiven him, even though his actions led to both her little brothers fleeing their home, never to be heard from again, but Jaime couldn’t help but pity the boy. _He may have earned Sansa’s forgiveness, but the wretched thing will probably never forgive himself._

Jaime’s attention snapped back to Sansa, who had begun to unbutton the cuff of her left sleeve. She rolled back the fabric and laid her arm out on the table, not looking at it herself but instead staring at Jon, who held her gaze and resumed stroking her other hand.

As recognition dawned on them, Thoros and Tormund gasped at the sight. The others gathered around, including the officers of the Night’s Watch, and one by one they realized what they were looking at. Jaime heard Sandor hiss as he recognized the raised red flesh of an angry burn.

Wide-eyed Tormund exclaimed, “Is that…” and Brienne finished his sentence, “…a _handprint_?!”

Sansa nodded and finally spoke, “In the last dream I had, just last night, the Night King finally caught up with me and grabbed my arm. I woke at that instant and my skin felt aflame. I’ve only shown it to Jon.” As she spoke, she quickly rolled down her sleeve, but Jaime and the others had already noticed the scar she was obviously hoping to keep hidden – the evidence of her _weakness_ – the long line that could be nothing but an attempted suicide. Jaime could see the shame written on her face. He had learned long ago that Sansa hated receiving pity. She seemed pleased when Sandor was cursing and ranting. She seemed to thrive on his blunt honesty. She despised empty courtesies. Sandor was a man of few words, who didn’t waste his breath on puffed up titles. Jaime was simply “lion”, or “Kingslayer” (though Jaime hated the latter). Brienne was “wench”, Tyrion “Imp” (terms Jaime found equally insulting). Tormund was “the ginger”, though Sandor said the word with such distaste that Jaime found it contradicted the man’s apparent attraction toward Sansa. Yet here he was, the man who seemed to soothe his queen with the same crude words that caused others to shrivel, looking down at the girl with the deepest pity Jaime had ever seen in a man’s eyes.

Jaime suddenly became aware that someone was talking. It was Melisandre. “Your grace, I realize this all probably seems very cruel to you. I won’t pretend the Lord of Light is kind, or even fair. He is what he is, and it is not for any of us to question his methods or motives. I can’t tell you _why_ you’ve been chosen, only _that_ you’ve been chosen. Killing is your fate, just as serving the Lord of Light is mine.”

Sansa didn’t react, so Melisandre tried a different angle, “Some women are born to be lovers. Some women are born to be mothers. Some are born to be Septas, or healers... These are all common enough. It’s less common for a woman to be a _fighter_ …” Melisandre gestured at Brienne, “…and even more rare, to be a _killer_. You, Sansa Stark, are a killer, and that is the only explanation I can offer as to why he has taken such an interest in you. Forgive me my theories, but they’re not carelessly formed.”

For some moments Sansa just stared at Melisandre, rare tears forming in her eyes. Something Melisandre said had struck a nerve, but Jaime knew not what. He only knew the sight of her crying made his jaw clench with disappointment that he could not shield his young charge from her own emotions.

Sansa stood up so abruptly that everyone flinched. She strode out the door without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I considered writing Arya into the story somewhere in chapter 30+ (OMG, I'm crazy) in which case she'd be the one Melisandre is giving this speech to. However, I knew what needed to happen to Sansa to help evolve her character to the next level. 
> 
> Again, this is Sansa-centric fic. If you don't like Sansa being the center of most plot points, you shouldn't still be reading this.


	41. The Imp's Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion proposes a plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of talking in this one. I love writing Tyrion dialogue, I just can't help myself. Doesn't propel the plot much. Don't hate me.

**Sandor**

Sandor felt his rage building, “So if your _theory_ is correct, then why the fuck don’t we get the little bird as far away from the Wall as possible? Fuck, I’ll take her myself. We’ll sail to Braavos, or Pentos. Hells, we could be in Skagos within a sennight, I’ll take our chances with the bloody cannibals rather than leave her here for the fucking Night King to turn into a walking, murderous icicle!”

“I know you only have one ear, dog, but I did think you were a better listener,” Tyrion retorted in his usual haughty tone, “As Lady Melisandre said, Sansa is the _key_ to drawing out the Night King and drawing him out is the only way to win this war.”

“Ah, so you want to use her as _bait_! Excellent idea! How could that _possibly_ go wrong?!”

Tyrion ignored Sandor’s sarcasm and continued. “I’m not saying she has to be out in the field of battle swinging a sword, but she must be _present –_ wherever we decide to assemble our forces. If she goes south, then this Night King will simply follow his army as it plows through every living thing in sight. Maybe he’ll even pick another target, but we won’t have the benefit of foresight Lady Melisandre’s visions have afforded us. Sansa may survive in Braavos, but do you really think she wants to see every person in Westeros turned into a walking corpse? And of course there is the possibility of this Night King commandeering some fleets and following her across the Narrow Sea. I know it sounds far-fetched, but two moons ago I would’ve bet my _cock_ that any story of the White Walkers was nothing more than an old wives’ tale!”

Sandor looked at Jon, “You’re fine with this? She’s your sister, probably your only living kin… are you willing to dangle her out there as the Night King’s prize for falling into our trap, assuming we can actually think of a trap that has a snowball’s chance in a kiln of working?”

Jon spoke slowly, “I don’t like the sound of it, but I don’t think we can rule anything out until we’ve considered our options.” Looking around the room, no one appeared to have any ideas. “Don’t all talk at once,” Jon said, attempting a smile.

Tyrion let another moment pass before proceeding. “Well, I know no one here would call me a keen battle strategist, but I did successfully hold off Stannis’ troops…”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Here we go…”

Tyrion was undeterred, “…and what I lack in physical prowess, I like to think I make up for in mental aptitude. I like to think I have a talent for problem-solving, and this, my friends, is a monumentally, unfathomably, BIG fucking problem.”

“Will you get on with it, Imp? We’re a bit pressed for time!”

With a huff, Tyrion began laying out his plan, “It seems to me that all wars are wars of attrition. Unfortunately for us, we will never amass anything close to 100,000 soldiers, even if we enlist every Northern boy and girl over the age of ten. But we _can_ work toward lessening their advantage in numbers. And the best way to boost our numbers quickly is through alliances. There aren’t enough people in the North, on that we all agree. And while this threat may be far from the minds of the Lords south of Moat Cailin, I would hope at least some of them would be smart enough to realize an army of this size is a threat to all of Westeros…”

“Now, it shouldn’t be too difficult to convince the Lords of the Vale and Riverrun to support our cause. Sansa has blood ties to both Robert Arryn and Edmure Tully…”

Theon spoke for the first time all day, “Robert Arryn is merely a puppet, Littlefinger pulls the strings, and there is no way that Sansa will put herself in Littlefinger’s debt, assuming he’s even willing to go against the Lannisters. Same for the Tullys: they have every right to hate the Lannisters but they won’t risk disturbing their newly established peace by turning against them to support the North.”

_Boy’s got a brain after all._

“You’re assuming, young Lord Greyjoy, that supporting the North would be tantamount to rebelling against the crown. But what if it were not?”

Jaime spoke up, “Cersei despises Sansa, there is no way she’ll interpret it as anything _but_ a betrayal, and King Tommen, like Robert Arryn, is merely a puppet.

“Correct you are, dear brother, though I’d argue that Cersei despises _everyone_ younger and prettier than she, but that’s beside the point... Our nephew Tommen may indeed be a puppet, but who’s _really_ pulling the strings?”

Realization dawned on Sandor’s face, “Tywin Lannister”.

“Give that man a prize!” Tyrion clapped. “My father has been the greatest puppet master the realm has ever known. He and the Tyrells hold sway in the Crownlands, the Westerlands, and the Reach. An alliance with the Great Lion would bring, by extension, everything north of Dorne, except of course the Stormlands, what’s left of them. We’d bring together 90% of Westeros.”

Sandor contemplated his words. The plan had merit, but Tyrion seemed to be ignoring one critical fact, which Jon pointed out: “Lord Tyrion, why on earth would your father wish to align himself with us? As far as he is concerned, every Northman is a traitor to the crown. At best, he sees the North as a giant, snow-covered wasteland. And Sansa, well, even if he believes her innocent in Joffrey’s death, even if he bears her no grudge for fleeing King’s Landing all those years ago, she led the complete annihilation of the Boltons, who were pledged to King Tommen. What would his bannermen think if Lord Tywin were to ally with the woman who wiped out an entire House that had sworn loyalty to him?”

“Because, Lord Commander Snow, there is one person who my father loathes even more than our sweet Sansa: Daenerys Targaryen. And as we speak, she is planning her attack on King’s Landing. My father’s contempt for the Mad King and everyone who shares his blood is known throughout the realm. Losing the crown to the Dragon Queen would be my father’s greatest failure, other than siring me, of course. Besides, the man isn’t stupid. Sansa has made it clear in her brief time as Queen in the North that she desires only peace and prosperity for her kingdom. She has sought no vengeance against the Lannisters for the murder of her family, nor against the backstabbing Freys. Sansa is not vengeful, and my father knows this. Daenerys on the other hand, well, I think it’s clear she is motivated quite heavily by her thirst for revenge.”

Jaime now spoke, “He may hate Daenerys more than Sansa, but he is shrewd; he won’t waste his coin and his men to help us fight the dead, it will only leave his own lands more vulnerable to the Dragon Queen’s looming attack. And we have little to offer him in return: as we’ve already established, the Northern armies are depleted, and will be even more so after the battle to come.”

Tyrion sighed, seemingly exasperated. “You’re right. He doesn’t _need_ us as allies, but he needs us to _not_ be his enemies. If my father thinks we’re in alliance talks with Daenerys, we won’t even have to ask for his allegiance, he’ll probably offer his aid willingly! With his considerable forces he has a decent chance of fending off Daenerys’ attack, but if he has to face _her_ attack from the East plus _our_ attack from the North, well I think you know he will not like those odds.”

Everyone looked to be considering the plan, but questions remained. Jon shook his head, “But we’re _not_ in alliance talks with Daenerys, she turned us down.”

“But my father doesn’t know that, does he? I’m sure by now he’s heard of her visit to Winterfell, after all, dragons _do_ make good fodder for gossip. He also probably knows of her shipments to you. All we need to do is spread a little rumor of our own. I suggest we spread word that Sansa, Daenerys, and Prince Doran of Dorne are on the verge of formalizing an alliance, to be sealed through the marriage of Sansa and Prince Doran.”

Sandor chuckled, “Sounds like a pretty good deal, Imp, a little too good. Why would Tywin believe us if we agreed to ally with him, who as you pointed out has been no friend to the Starks, instead of the wealthy Prince of Dorne and Daenerys with her dragons and massive armies? Tywin will think it a trap; he won’t bite.”

“True, my father would be quite skeptical. Which is why we need to provide a compelling reason for him to believe Sansa would rather make peace with the Lannisters than the Targaryen Queen and Dornish Prince.”

“What reason might that be, brother?” Jaime spoked.

An ugly grin distorted Tyrion’s already crooked features, “The greatest motivator there is, brother: _Love_.”


	42. The Beginnings of a Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A plan is formed

**Sandor**

“Whose love?” Jaime asked in obvious confusion.

“ _Yours_ , of course!”

Everyone exchanged perplexed glances. Jaime closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Pardon me brother, _thinking_ has never been my strong suit, but how would Sansa and my imaginary _love_ convince father to join our cause? I’m fairly certain the man now despises me as much as he despises Sansa, after I abandoned my duty and family to go on a quest to bring the Stark girls to safety.”

Tyrion bawled out an exaggerated laugh, “Gods, brother, are you really that naïve? You are his _heir!_ His golden _son_ , his crowning achievement! You can do no wrong! Father’s greatest regret is not convincing you to claim your birthright as Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West. If you offer to give him that… well he’d throw himself over the Wall just for the _chance_ to see that destiny fulfilled!”

Jon noticed a flaw in this otherwise sound plan, “It won’t be enough to _pretend_ at love. Tywin will want to see Sansa and Jaime wedded and bedded, and Jaime firmly seated as Lord of the Rock, before he sends even one man to join our cause.”

Theon agreed, “Aye, and Sansa would throw _herself_ over the Wall before agreeing to another marriage! She’s willing to sacrifice herself in every way but that, and I’ll not see her forced into another loveless marriage just to align ourselves with Lord Tywin and the Tyrells, who’ll betray us at the first chance!”

“My father will _not_ betray his son’s wife, and the Tyrells will not go against him. Of that I’m certain. My father is many things, and Gods know he can be as cruel as any man, but he doesn’t repay loyalty with treachery.”

Sandor’s head was spinning. The thought of Sansa marrying the _Kingslayer_ repulsed him in a profound way. Visions of the golden knight draping the little bird in his red cloak flooded Sandor’s mind. Even worse, he imagined Jaime rutting between her soft legs. Sandor’s jaw clenched and he felt like ripping the Kingslayer’s handsome head off his body just to ensure the Imp’s plan could never come to fruition.

Just then, the man himself spoke up, in his typical sardonic tone, “Does anyone care to hear what I think of this plan? You know, since I’ll be the one spending the rest of my life married to a woman I don’t love, however _lovely_ she may be… a woman I’ve come to look at as a little sister...”

Sandor mumbled below his breath, “Don’t see why that would be a problem for _you_.”

Jaime’s face reddened but he ignored the insult, “As I was saying. I agree this plan you’ve concocted would likely work in securing an alliance with my father, and by extension his allies. But all this… this elaborate _ruse_ that Sansa and I will have to maintain for the rest of our lives, and we _still_ won’t have the numbers to defeat the army of the dead head-to-head in battle. All we’d be doing is increasing our odds. And mayhap that will be enough, mayhap we’ll be victorious, and they’ll sing songs of our bravery until the end of time, but we’ll then have established ourselves as _enemy_ to Daenerys and her massive beasts, not to mention her massive Unsullied and Dothraki armies. While the Lannister and Tyrell forces are here fighting with us, she’ll be sweeping across the land, burning everyone that doesn’t bend the knee until all that’s left is scorched earth and Targaryen loyalists.”

“The Lion’s right—"

Tyrion spoke over Sandor, earning himself an icy glare, “We can only fight one war at a time! We must give ourselves the best chance of winning _this_ war, the war between the living and the dead! Must I point out that if we lose this war it won’t matter whether Daenerys is friend or foe? Am I the only one capable of seeing this?”

Jaime raised his voice, clearly irate. “You’re assuming greater numbers increases our chance of winning, but whether we’re 30,000 or 80,000, do you honestly think this battle will be won soldier against _dead_ soldier?!” He turned to plead his case to Melisandre, who had been silent through this entire debate, “My lady, you came here to tell us about the need to take out the generals and the Night King himself, did you not? You came to tell us that Sansa herself is the key to luring out the Night King, did you not?” He turned back to Tyrion, “If _those_ are the deciding factors, then we shouldn’t be standing around talking about love stories and flimsy alliances, we should be putting all our minds together to figure out how to get _us_ – the warriors in _this_ room, in a position to send those ice-cold bastards to Hell!”

Tyrion, undisturbed by his brother’s outburst, continued his attempt at persuasion. He spoke calmly, trying to soothe his brother’s angst. “Jaime, I know it’s not what you _want_ – a marriage, a Lordship – but you can’t let that cloud your—"

“Gods, Tyrion, do you really think that’s what this is about?! If marrying Sansa and going through with this plan of yours would guarantee us a victory, I’d be in the Sept right now waiting for my bride, but it won’t! The time we spend on that farce, on treating with father, is better spent preparing for battle. We need to figure out how to kill them, or at least how to keep them from bringing down the Wall!”

A small voice spoke from the doorway, “I think I’d like to have a say in this matter, since I appear to be the only person critical to either plan.” Everyone turned to see a red-eyed Sansa.

Tyrion blushed, “My Queen, h-how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear your plan. It’s a good one, my Lord…” Turning to Jaime, she added, “…and if I did have to marry – well, I could do worse...”

She smiled sadly at Jaime, who clutched his chest, “Lady _Stark_ , that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“…but I’m afraid that plan won’t work, for all the reasons Ser Jaime has pointed out.”

A wave of relief washed over Sandor, who didn’t realize until now that he’d broken into a nervous sweat.

“Though I fear your plan, Ser Jaime, is also flawed. Great warriors indeed surround me in this room, but the Night King is too smart to let his generals needlessly face any of you head-on, much less to do so himself.”

“You sound like a woman with a plan of her own,” the Imp stated curiously.

“Indeed, Lord Tyrion, and I’m afraid it’s rather simple: stay alive long enough for me to kill the Night King.”

\----------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sandor, Brienne, Theon, Tormund, Jon, Jaime – Sansa wasn’t sure who spoke first, only that upon hearing her _simple plan_ these voices combined to form an inaudible cacophony of dissent. Brienne’s voice won out, “My lady, I know you’ve some experience fighting in the Battle for the North, and I know there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to save your people, but – and please pardon me – how do you plan on killing the Night King, who’s been honing his fighting skills for millennia? If I understand correctly, he need only touch you for a few moments and you’ll be turned into one of his White Walkers. _We_ would lose our Queen and _he_ would gain another general to help spread his- his- his _death!”_

“Aye, I know you think you must do this, but it’s suicide,” Sandor added.

“Is it though?” She looked around the room and sighed, “Are we all willing to accept Lady Melisandre’s visions as truth?” Everyone reluctantly nodded. “If we believe her vision, not to mention this _burn_ on my arm, then we agree that the Night King will expose himself to me, and me alone. The reason your plan won’t work, Tyrion, is explained in Lady Melisandre’s own words: he will only reveal himself if he does not perceive a real threat. The larger our army, the bigger the threat he’ll pose... He’ll let his wights tear through our people until our numbers are greatly diminished or even until I’m the last woman standing. If, however, we make him underestimate us, then his confidence will be his downfall – just as his one general’s confidence in fighting Jon at Hardhome was _his_ downfall.”

Jaime, always thinking as a commander, tried to anticipate her thoughts, “So you suggest what? That just the people in this room face his army to lure him into false comfort?”

“Not exactly. The man – or whatever he is – obviously has a mind. We have to assume he would see that as a trap and remain out of reach. But if he sees a respectable though _defeatable_ foe, he’ll have no reason to suspect a trap, nor reason to perceive much of a threat. I don’t expect he’s survived this long by being reckless, but we have to hope he will seek me out, while remaining surrounded by his generals and his wights. Thus – and trust me, it gives me no pride to say this – I’ll be the only person who ever is in a position to kill him. It must be me, not due to capability, but due to opportunity.”

Everyone was quiet. Sandor and Jon looked to the floor while all other eyes were fixed on Sansa.

“May I say something?” Samwell spoke meekly, and everyone startled at hearing his voice, as if they’d forgotten he and the other officers were in the room.

Sam continued cautiously, as if afraid of the reaction his words would elicit. “The few times I’ve seen the White Walkers and wights, it did appear as though the wights _follow_ the White Walkers, but I would not go so far to say they are fully _controlled_ by the White Walkers.”

Impatiently Jaime asked, “What’s your point, Maester Tarly?”

“Only that… well… Lady Sansa’s plan is based on an assumption that she will be _safe_ from the wights… but we do not know that to be true. Do we know for certain that the Night King can somehow communicate to the wights that Lady Sansa is not to be harmed?”

All eyes turned to Melisandre, but she only shrugged in apparent obliviousness.

Sandor was eager to concede, “Then that plan won’t work, my lady. We’ll need to find another way.”

Jaime corrected him, “The plan _can_ work, it just needs… _alteration._ Our queen will still be out there but must not be unguarded.”

Beric nodded his agreement, “Aye… because even if the wights _are_ controlled by the Night King, if our queen is unguarded the wights can simply subdue or incapacitate her until the Night King reaches her. We must position her somewhere the wights can be kept at bay, to force the Night King to come for her himself.”

Thoros rose from his seat with an uncharacteristically serious expression, “My lady, you do not know me well, but I ask you to trust me. The Lord of Light sent me here, and until this moment I did not know for what purpose. But I know now, without a shadow of a doubt: if you’ll permit me, I’d like to stand as your shield on the night of the battle, whether we enact your plan or not.”

Sansa grasped the man’s arm and smiled weakly, “Who am I to stop a priest from serving his God?” Thoros nodded his thanks, placing his scarred hand over hers.

Jon began to speak, “I too will stand with you, sister.”

Sansa only shook her head. “No, Jon, the Night King has seen you fight and kill one of his generals. If you stand with me, we risk raising his alarm. Right now the Night King doesn’t know what we know thanks to Lady Melisandre, but if the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch is seen acting as my personal guard, we may tip our hand.”

Theon stepped forward, holding his chin as high as his submissive demeanor allowed, “I’ve always been a better swordsman than I look. I will protect your sister, Jon. I’ve shielded her back since we escaped the Boltons, but I know I have not yet atoned for my sins against your family. Let me do this.”

Jon reluctantly nodded, but Sandor stood up and ran his hands through his hair in frustration, “Bugger this. This isn’t the time for decisions based on _honor_ ,” he spat out the last word. “We all know I’m the best qualified to protect her. I’ll kill anything that comes near her. There’s nothing to discuss,” He crossed his arms to deter any protest.

Sansa walked toward him and raised her hand to cup his burnt cheek, instantly calming his ire. He closed his eyes, knowing what she was about to say, “Sandor, my _knight_ …” He didn’t correct her; he knew she used the term to tease him. “...of that I have no doubt. But you stand close to seven feet tall. You fight with the ferocity of a boar and the grace of a tiger. The idea is to _lure_ the Night King, not to send him running for the hills.”

Everyone chuckled except Sandor. For the first time in several minutes Tyrion spoke, “Well, night has fallen, and we have the beginnings of a plan. I for one would like to get drunk! Shall we retire?”

**\-------------------------------------------**

**Sandor**

They agreed to delay their departure by two days so that they could battle plan again in light of the new information Lady Melisandre supplied. With that they filed out, leaving only Sansa and Sandor. After Jon and Brienne threw curious glances their way, the pair were left alone. Sansa sensed he had more to say and was right. “Are you sure about this little bird?”

“No, but do you have any better ideas?” She smiled weakly.

Sandor lazily grasped a lock of her hair between two fingers, studying it intently, “Aye, might be I do. We hop on the next boat off of this stinking continent. Bugger the rest of them, if they have any sense, they’ll do the same. Leave the bloody Lannisters, Tyrells and frilly Dornishmen to fight the dead. Or let the bloody Dragon Queen defend her precious Westeros, since she’s so hell-bent on ruling it.”

Sansa giggled at his colorful language. She played along with his fantasy, “I suppose in the Free Cities we could be anyone. Who would you be, Sandor?”

“Anyone else will do. Anything’s an improvement over being a fucking _Clegane_. I’ll be a fucking footstool for some fat prince for all I care, as long as I never have to fight a walking corpse.”

Sansa laughed again, more loudly this time.

_A man needs neither food nor wine. Give me Sansa Stark’s giggles and I’ll never want for anything._

“Well I think I’ll be a merchant’s daughter. Or, better yet, a seamstress! Yes, I’ll travel from city to city selling my wares.”

Now Sandor laughed, “Fair enough. Then I’ll be your guard. Suppose that’s better than being a footstool. If I’m lucky mayhap I’ll get to kill some greasy Braavosi that tries to put his hands on your _wares_.”

Sansa feigned appall and swatted his arm before smiling, “Whatever makes you happy, just don’t scare away every customer that _looks_ at my wares.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

She beckoned he follow her through the door, and he obliged.

_A fine fantasy._


	43. The Wisdom of Witches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has an unexpected conversation

**Sandor**

After drowning his sorrows in a bit too much ale, Sandor fell asleep easily that night. Sometime in the night, however, he awoke breathlessly after dreaming of the little bird – dead – reaching out to touch his face.

He knew sleep would evade him for the remainder of the night, so he put on his leather breeches, boots, two tunics, and fur-lined cloak. He thought to ascend the Wall to take in the view, but no one was manning the lift at that hour. Instead he sat on the stairs leading to the scaffold – the wooden platform where Gods know how many disloyal brothers of the Night’s Watch were hung over the years.

From across the courtyard he spotted a pair of red eyes. Instinctively he reached for his dagger but breathed a sigh of relief upon realizing it was just Ghost. The white direwolf trotted over to Sandor and sniffed his outstretched hand. Sandor scratched the wolf’s ears and spoke affectionately to him, as one would a beloved pet.

Seemingly out of nowherem Melisandre approached. Sandor looked up before returning his gaze to the wolf.

“He likes you," the Priestess stated plainly.

“Aye, dogs normally do.”

“But he is no dog. Wolves are much more… _selective_ in who they trust.”

Sandor snorted. “Easy enough to trust when you’re big enough to kill just about anything in your path.”

“Is it?”

Sandor realized her intent but said nothing; anyone with eyes could see he did not trust easily.

A silence fell between them, though he could sense her assessing him and found it unsettling. Finally unable to bear the scrutiny he growled, “Speak your piece, witch.”

His anger only seemed to amuse her, “You care for her.”

It wasn’t a question, but Sandor considered denying it or playing dumb. Instead he just scoffed, “Aye, you must have some real powerful magic to see that. Your Lord of Light show you that in the flames?”

Once again, she wasn’t intimidated by his coarse manner, “As a matter of fact, he did.”

Sandor stared at her, blinking, before reining in his curiosity and attempting nonchalance, “Well what of it?”

“Fire is the Lord of Light’s preferred medium, _and_ his preferred method of cleansing and blessing,” she reached to touch his burnt cheek, but Sandor flinched away.

“Aye, it’s an honor to have been so _blessed,_ please give him my thanks next time you two speak.”

“You think you’re japing, but it _is_ a blessing, Lord Clegane.”

“Well I’ll tell you what, if you fancy them so, why don’t you trade your pretty face for a set of these,” he turned his head and pointed to his scars, “see how you like it.”

Melisandre sighed, “We all bear scars, Sandor. Some are more visible than others, but none are easy to carry.” He snorted but she continued, “Look at Jaime Lannister – he lost his sword hand, which was his entire identity.” She paused for effect. “Do you think Lord Tyrion had an easy life, the dwarf who killed his lady mother to enter this world? What about Jon Snow – an outcast in his own home, never knowing a mother’s love. Or Theon Greyjoy, completely broken for Ramsay Bolton’s amusement. Yet you’re the only one out here pitying himself. Even your _little bird_ , who has seen more pain in her short life than most people see in ten lifetimes, is ready to face whatever lays ahead with no shred of resentment.”

Sandor rose, “You think I don’t know that? What do you think I’m worrying over? You think I give a rat’s arse what happens to my miserable old self? My only fear is failing… failing _her_. _Again_.”

“Does _she_ think you failed her?”

“She’s too damned kind to think that of anyone!”

“Do you really believe that? Do you purport to know her thoughts, know all the people she’d like to make suffer because they wronged her, or her family?”

“I didn’t say I wronged her, I said I _failed_ her.”

“But you seem to think they are the same thing.”

He waved his hand at her dismissively and began to walk away before turning back, “You said you saw visions of my past in your bloody _flames._ If that’s true, then you know what kind of man I was. You know the things I did, the things I _didn’t_ do. And I’ll swear by any fucking God you want that I regret almost none of it. Hells, I _enjoyed_ most of it! The only true regret I’ve ever known is standing by while those _bastards_ hurt her!” He was pacing back and forth now, blood rising, “And not just because of that pain, but because by letting them hurt her I earned her mistrust. So when I finally was ready to do the _honorable_ thing, to help her get out of that cesspool, she refused me. And I can’t even blame her, I was a fucking _monster_! But I swear if she had come with me, I’d have kept her safe, like I did her little sister. There’d be no Littlefucker, no Ramsay, no any of it!”

He was breathing heavily now, and Melisandre let him catch his breath before she responded, “Or, more likely, you’d have brought her to her aunt in the Vale, and she’d still end up under Littlefinger’s thumb. Or worse yet, you’ve have brought her to Riverrun, to her mother and brother, and she’d have been with them for the Red Wedding.”

Her words hit him like a wave. He stood, mouth agape, for some moments before Melisandre continued, “I know you don’t want to hear this Sandor, but I meant what I said about the Lord of Light working in mysterious ways, and he has worked a great deal on _you_. What your brother did to you, what he did to your family, it made you who you are. It also drove you from your home straight to Tywin Lannister, who drove you to Cersei Lannister, who drove you to Joffrey Baratheon…”

“…who drove me to Sansa Stark.”

Melisandre smiled, “…and later to the Brotherhood without Banners, then Arya Stark, then Lady Brienne, then Elder Brother, then Beric and Thoros…”

“…and back to Sansa Stark.”

It was too much to take in. Sandor rubbed his aching head. His fingers and toes felt numb. He felt swelling in his eyes, but tears would not come. With a few simple words, his entire life’s narrative was shattered. His reason for existing for more than twenty years, the singular motivator behind nearly all of his life choices, was his desire for vengeance against his brother. Gregor had held Sandor’s face in a brazier when Sandor was only seven years old, burning him so badly that he nearly died. Often Sandor wished the incident _had_ killed him, because the pain in his life only continued. Shortly after that incident Sandor’s sister and father both died under _mysterious_ circumstances. Only it was no mystery to Sandor: Gregor was responsible for both of their deaths.

And yet here stood this Red Witch, telling Sandor that without all those events he’d never have come to know the little bird – who had recently replaced Gregor as Sandor’s sole purpose for living, even though he’d yet to admit the extent of his feelings for her.

_No Gregor, no Sansa._

For a moment, all the pain Gregor caused him seemed a small sacrifice, but then Sandor had another realization: if he’d never met the little bird, he’d never know what he was missing. He’d have become a Knight, or maybe followed in his family trade of Kennel Master. Without his hideous scars he’d have met a woman, made her his wife, put pups in her. Sure, she’d be no great beauty like Sansa, but beauty is only skin-deep, and a plain woman in your bed is better than a beautiful one out of reach. It would be different if Sansa were _his_ , but he knew better than to hope for that. Sure, they’d shared a few _moments_ , nearly shared even _more_ , and he knew the girl was fond of him (though didn’t know why), but she’d never _marry_ him, never _love_ him. At best he’d be the _thing_ she used to conquer her fears of intimacy, then she’d discard him and find herself a suitable husband – someone highborn and handsome.

 _No, Gregor did me no favors. He set me on the path that led me to her – the woman who’s ruined me for life – because as sure as I am that I’ll never be her_ true love _is as sure as I am that I’ll spend the rest of my life following her around like a stray dog, living for the rare moments when she gives me a pat on the head or some scraps off her plate._

Melisandre’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You doubt the truth of my words, Sandor Clegane?”

“Don’t doubt them, just don’t see what good it’s done.”

“I told you, it brought you to _her_.”

“Aye, and as I said, what good has that done me, other than make me yearn for something that will forever be out of reach?”

Melisandre sighed, “Something is only beyond your reach if you _believe_ it is, but besides that, I’m not talking about what’s good for _you_ , I’m talking about what’s good for _her.”_

“Aye, and what’s that?”

“You.”

Sandor studied her a moment, a lifetime of experience telling him any such praise must surely be a cruel jape, but his curiosity won out, “What do you mean I’m _good_ for her? She doesn’t even need me, she has _Lady_ Brienne, _Ser_ Jaime, not to mention an entire bloody kingdom at her beck and call.”

Melisandre huffed in frustration, “I’m not saying she needs your _protection_ , Sandor…”

“Then what are you saying? Gods, do all you fire-worshipping cunts speak in riddles all the time? You’re as bad as the one-eyed knight and his bald-headed priest.”

“Some conclusions you must arrive at yourself. We servants of God can merely point you in the direction of the truth.”

“Bugger that, what kind of God gives you so much knowledge and asks you not to share it? You sure had plenty to say about the Night King and the rest of those dead fucks.” Seeing she would not relent, Sandor stomped off, shooing away the wolf following at his heels, and made his way to his quarters.

_You’re good for her, Sandor, she needs you Sandor… fucking dumb witch, how can I be useful to her as anything but a protector, a soldier?_

But behind the doubt, there was something else, a pesky little feeling Sandor was ill-equipped to handle, an emotion he knew not how to nurture: _hope_. 


	44. What I Always Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets what he always wanted, but it is not what he expected. 
> 
> Sandor loses that which he never knew he wanted.

**Jon**

For two straight days the entire group that was present for Lady Melisandre’s accounts gathered in Jon’s chambers to devise a new strategy, based on the assumption that the Wall would somehow fall at Eastwatch by the Sea. The only contingency, in case her vision was wrong, was that the men of the Night’s Watch would remain at Castle Black and the other forts along the Wall. Based on the pace of the army, the Watch would be able to outrun them to Winterfell, should the Wall fall. To be safe, the small towns and villages just south of the Wall, including Mole’s Town, would be ordered to head south to Winterfell within the moon.

If and when the Wall fell, signal would be sent from Eastwatch to Castle Black, where Sam would dispatch ravens to Winterfell, House Flint, and Last Hearth – the latter two being the northern-most Houses in the North. Sansa would call the other houses to Winterfell to prepare for battle. By Jon’s estimates it would take the army of the dead at least a moon to reach Winterfell from Eastwatch. They were slow-moving but once south of the Wall the terrain was much less rugged, so he assumed their pace would accelerate slightly.

Beric and Thoros decided they would return with Sansa’s party to Winterfell where they could be of greater assistance. Lady Melisandre, however, wanted to stay at Castle Black – she felt her visions had become clearer the closer she got to the Wall, just like Sansa’s nightmares.

Everyone largely agreed on the broad strokes of the plan, but tempers flared while deciding on the finer details. It didn’t help that Sandor – who had more battle experience than anyone present save Jaime – was unwilling to participate constructively in any aspect of the plans that had to do with Sansa. They collectively had agreed that Sansa’s precise location once the battle started was the single most important factor, but Sandor shot down every proposed idea...

The Northern battlements: “Too exposed”

The underground Crypts: “No way to escape.”

The Godswood: “Too big”

The kennel yard: “Too small”

The Broken Tower: “The whole thing will collapse if filled up with wights.”

Eventually it was Sansa who put an end to his defiance, “Sandor, if the only plan you’re willing to support involves knocking me on the head and throwing me on a Braavos-bound merchant ship, then get out. But if you stay you will contribute to the discussion in a _productive_ manner!”

The scolding tone she’d used silenced the entire group, including Sandor, but the stubborn man would not be deterred so easily, “Well then come up with better ideas!”

“You’re welcome to join us! How about you come up with an idea instead of shooting down everyone else’s?!”

Tyrion broke the awkward silence that followed, “Mommy, Daddy, please stop fighting!” Jaime and Thoros chuckled though Sansa and Sandor were clearly unamused.

Sandor huffed as he pulled the map of Winterfell over to study it more closely. After a few minutes he jabbed a finger at the lichyard, “Here.” He offered no explanation for his choice, crossing his arms as if no more needed to be said.

“Well, I suppose a graveyard is a rather fitting place to battle an army of the dead. If nothing else, my lady, it will make for a rather poetic tale, assuming anyone lives to tell it,” Ser Jaime certainly had a way of finding humor in morbid situations.

Jon didn’t see why the lichyard would be any better than any other space within Winterfell, “Why there? She’ll just be standing in the middle of the yard, I thought we decided she needs to be somewhere with at least _some_ cover.”

Sandor nodded, “There will be. We’ll build it. The lichyard is favorable because of its size and location.” Everyone simply stared at him. He rolled his eyes but continued explaining, “It’s not too big to be impossible to guard Lady Sansa, but not so small that we’ll be confining her in a trap. If we assume the army takes the most direct route to Winterfell then they will arrive at the North Gate first, and likely focus their attack there. The idea is to _dangle_ our queen _within reach_ isn’t it? The lichyard is just inside the Northern wall. If we place her too centrally the Night King may not risk fighting through all our men to get to her, but here,” he pointed again at the lichyard, “if they breach the North Gate or Northern wall she’ll be right there, close enough to draw him out.”

Thoros nodded, “But what of the cover, what do you propose we construct?”

Sandor dragged his finger along the interior walls that surrounded the lichyard, “Raised plankways on all the walls except the one along the battlements. The plankways will be where Sansa and her guards are positioned. Atop all the walls we need deterrents… barbed wire, iron spikes… funnel them through the gate if they want to get to her.”

Jaime nodded passionately, an excited glimmer in his eye, “Yes – and have the plankways high enough that they cannot be easily climbed. Have a single stairway that leads up, no other way to get to the plankways.”

Beric smiled, “A chokepoint.”

“Aye,” Sandor said, though he didn’t share the others’ excitement.

Thoros and Theon looked at each other before the former spoke, “Well I guess we know where we’ll be.”

Jon was less convinced, “And what if they get overrun? Two men can’t hold a chokepoint forever.”

Sandor nodded, “Aye, but that’s true of any place we put her. The numbers will always be their advantage.”

Brienne added, “Perhaps it would be wise to have another guard or two up there, in case any do manage to get over the walls – past the wire and spikes. We can’t have Thoros or Theon leaving the chokepoint to deal with stragglers.”

Jon felt somewhat satisfied by that suggestion, “Aye, plus they’ll be right along the battlements, archers can lay cover if need be, if things get… out of hand.”

The subject of their plan finally spoke up, “Pardon me if I’m taking things too literally, but Lady Melisandre said she saw me standing in a snowy yard, not _above_ one, when meeting the Night King.”

All eyes turned to the Red Priestess who alleviated Sansa’s concern, “It matters not. We make the best plans we can; how precisely the events will unfold none of us can know. Perhaps the battle will end with Sansa face-to-face with the Night King in the lichyard… not that I’m encouraging you to attempt that, your grace.”

Sandor voiced his disapproval yet again, “What happened to, ‘if the Lord of Light shows it happening, it’ll happen’?” He didn’t bother trying to hide his mockery of her faith.

Her response was sharp, “I stand by what I said, Lord Clegane. I only mean that you shouldn’t devise your plan around trying to _fulfill_ that prophecy.”

“Yet we’re doing just that! Without your _vision_ of the Night King seeking out Sansa she’d be at Bear Island with the other ladies, out of harm’s reach!”

This time Sansa’s words were not intended to reproach Sandor but to comfort him, “Sandor…” she touched his arm lightly until he met her eyes, “It isn’t just her visions. You saw the burn on my arm, you know of my nightmares. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Not saying it is, but it’s also not proof that we should be _trying_ to put you in his grasp. What if we’ve got it wrong? What if these _prophecies_ are meant to warn us to get you far away from the fucker? You’re the fucking Queen! You’re the last Stark! If you…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, and Jon looked around to see nothing but faces of pity, except Sansa who looked pained.

“I’m not the last Stark. My brother Jon is just as much a Stark as I am.”

Jon suddenly felt lightheaded. Though his siblings always accepted him, no one had ever spoken those words out loud, at least not in his presence. He fought back tears – though he knew not if they were tears of joy, pride, or sadness.

“Then all the more reason to keep you and him in two different places when the fighting starts. Go to Bear Island, little bird. Go there. _Live_. Let the Night King plow through the land until someone stops him – the Lannisters, the fucking Dragon Queen… Hells, hopefully it will be someone in this room… but whenever it is… _that’s_ when you come back. Whoever’s left in the realm of men is going to need someone to lead them, and I can think of no better King or Queen than you. Maybe _that’s_ your destiny.”

The desperation in his voice was painful to hear, and as Jon looked around, the expressions he saw told him that more than a few of the others shared Sandor’s feelings, though were less willing to voice them.

Sansa stared at him for a few seconds. “Leave us,” she did not raise her voice, or direct it at anyone in particular, but they knew she was addressing all of them as they all walked out. As Jon was about to follow, she called him to a halt, “Not you.”

It was just she, Jon, and Sandor in the room when she spoke again, “Jon, you’ve seen the Night King on multiple occasions. Has he ever gotten close to the _fray_ , so to speak?”

“No, Sansa. He has always watched from afar.”

“Even when the threat was minimal?”

“Even then.”

“Sandor,” she turned her gaze back to the man, who looked oddly small under the weight of his dread, “I understand your fears. I thank you for sharing them – I know it was hard for you, especially in front of the others. But I will not run away. I would rather die at Winterfell alongside my people than watch them perish from afar. Bear Island would just be another cage for me, albeit bigger than the ones I’m used to… a voluntary confinement, yes, but still a cage. I told you I don’t fear death and it’s true, but I wasn’t completely honest when I said a cage is the only thing I do fear…” She took a deep breath, “I fear living while those I care about die. I’ve done that enough for five lifetimes… Do you understand me? Do you accept what I’m telling you?”

He closed his eyes but eventually nodded, “Aye, little bird. I’ll say no more on the matter.”

Sansa squeezed his hand a moment before withdrawing a parchment from the inside pocket of her cloak, “Jon, might I borrow your quill?”

He handed her his quill as she unrolled the small scroll on the table, leaning over it, “I wrote this yesterday, and all I must do is sign it. Sandor, you will be our witness. I am using my power as Queen to legitimize you as Jon Stark. You are to be my heir.”

Both men were stunned.

“Sansa… I am… _honored_ , truly, but you know I’ve never wanted to be a ruler.”

“Neither did I, but here I am. I wanted to be a dutiful wife and mother to a dozen children, the House or Kingdom meant little to me. Yet here I am, husbandless, _childless…_ but with a great House _and_ a Kingdom – the last House I ever expected to call my own, as I had three brothers who’d inherit before me… three brothers I’ve outlived for reasons I cannot fathom,” her eyes were wistful, but whether she was mourning the life she thought she’d have or the brothers she’d lost, Jon did not know.

Jon took her hand, “Sansa, you are young, not yet one-and-twenty. You can still have those things.”

She shook her head, “No, Jon, I cannot. Not all of them, at least. Which is the reason you _must_ accept what I am offering you, if you care at all about our House, about our family legacy…”

“Sansa, what are you talking about?”

“I met with Samwell a few days ago and he confirmed what Maester Damon had already told me.” She lowered her eyes as she continued, “I can’t have children, Jon… So you see, it matters not for the Stark line whether I live or die past this battle. The only impact I’ll have on the North or the realm is the one I make in my own lifetime…” she lifted her head to look at Sandor again, “and if there is a chance that I am the key to saving the North, I cannot turn my back on it.”

Jon looked at Sandor, who seemed equally stunned. Never in Jon’s life would he have imagined his sister to be barren, she was the very pinnacle of femininity and good breeding. Her mother Catelyn was the definition of womanly bounty, bringing five strong, healthy children into the world without suffering a single miscarriage or loss, to his knowledge.

“I don’t understand, what do you mean you can’t have children?”

Sansa sighed, “I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say both maesters agree it is unlikely I will conceive, and _highly_ unlikely I can bear a child, due to a… _condition_ I have.”

“How… how can they know that?”

Sansa looked exasperated, “I don’t know Jon, I’m not a maester… I hope I don’t have to tell either of you that this information stays among the three of us.” Both men nodded.

Jon could tell his sister was withholding something, and a quick glance at Sandor proved the man shared his suspicion, but he would not push his sister on this sensitive issue. Instead he gave her a hug, willing to spend as long as she needed in an embrace, but too quickly she broke away, “It’s alright, Jon, I’ve known for some time, I just… need to make sure you understand why it’s so important that you accept the Stark name, that you continue our legacy. If anyone should be going to Bear Island, it’s _you.”_

Jon nodded, “I accept Sansa, though I hope you haven’t given up on your own happiness.”

She didn’t answer, instead signing the document before having Jon and Sandor do the same. 

Suddenly everything made sense: something must have happened to Sansa during her time with Ramsay that caused her infertility – the _condition_ she was being vague about. Perhaps it was due to his constant abuse of her body, or the Milk of the Poppy he ordered the maester to give her in constant stream. The nightmare she’d had about someone killing her son, it must have been a manifestation of her anger at Ramsay for robbing her of her fertility. The other day when she walked out after hearing Lady Melisandre’s words… Jon remembered the words Melisandre had just spoken – she told Sansa some women are born to be lovers, or _mothers_ , but Sansa was born to be a killer.

Looking at his sister again he noticed how tired and even _old_ she looked. She looked closer to thirty than twenty. Her beauty was still there, but it was obscured by a sheen of sorrow that dulled her once-striking features.

_Her cheekbones were once high and strong, now she just looks gaunt._

_Her skin used to be cream, now it just looks pale._

_Was the green of her eyes always so dull? What about the cherry of her lips, now they’re nearly as pale as her skin._

Sansa excused herself and Sandor followed after her. Jon was glad for it, he needed solitude. He wanted to hit something, to break something, to kill something. He stared down at the scroll – the slip of parchment that turned him from Snow to Stark, from base-born to true-born. Yet now the thing he always yearned for – the vindication and validation he wanted more than anything, suddenly felt like a curse.

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor didn’t remember escorting the little bird to her room or walking to his own, but he found himself standing in the small room, staring at his hands. He felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him with Sansa’s admission. He was angry, but there was something else. He felt… bitter. He felt the way one does after being bested by a lesser opponent. He felt like someone stole something from him.

_It’s her that’s lost something, not you._

But he did feel loss. The loss of… possibility. The loss of some future that he did not even know he’d been hoping for. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he paced his small room. He needed someone to blame but there was nothing, so he blamed her. His mind knew it wasn’t her fault, yet who else could he direct his rage at? Why did she have to be so Gods-be-damned perfect, why did she have to make him harbor these feelings? Why did she allow them, encourage them?

He silently cursed her for every time she touched his arm or squeezed his hand as she’d done just minutes ago. He cursed her for falling asleep on his shoulder, for coming to his room and kissing him. For letting him hold her as she cried herself to sleep. For every smile, every gaze, for letting him stay in Winterfell, for choosing him as her shield. He cursed her the way a convicted man curses the executioner – the man who bears you no ill-will, but swings the blade, nonetheless.

_But why am I feeling this way now? It didn’t bother me before, not like this. Before it was a welcome torment, now it is just torment…_

_Because today she killed your dream…_

_What dream?_

_You know._

He _did_ know, though couldn’t admit it even to himself. Since learning that Sansa had refused to accept any of the marriage proposals – since she confided in him that she would not marry unless it was by her choice – a small hope had been planted inside his chest... A tiny flower bud that grew bigger every time she smiled at him or touched him; every time she refused the Dragon Queen’s demands of an alliance sealed through marriage. He vanquished the thought every time it arose but it was there nonetheless, screaming for his attention: as the flower grew, he didn’t just want Sansa in his bed, he wanted her to wear his cloak, to call him _husband_ , to grow big with his pups, to raise his children, to grow old with him. It mattered not that she was the Queen and marrying her would make him a King. He’d be her consort, he didn’t need titles, didn’t need the respect of the people – Sansa had enough of that for both of them. He just needed _her_. And his need for her made him realize there was something else he wanted: children. A daughter to carry about around on his shoulders. A son to take riding and teach how to fight. He wanted both, and Sansa could give him neither.

He shook away the thoughts, it was only ever a fantasy. She’d never have given him those things even if she could. She was a queen, and he was a dog. He stormed out of his room in search of the only thing that could ease his angst: ale.


	45. My Song for your Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night at Castle Black.
> 
> (See end notes for song credits)

**Sansa**

Their last night in Castle Black was spent much like their first: with a modest feast and an _immodest_ amount of ale. Unlike that first night though, they were drinking to drown their fears rather than drinking to celebrate their hope. Sansa herself had indulged in three cups of ale, though she was hardly drunk enough to wash away her dread.

It hadn’t taken long for the knowledge of Melisandre’s premonition to spread amongst the men. They tried to jape and put half-hearted effort into playing cards and dice games, but it was clearly futile. Most of the men ended up splitting off into smaller groups, reminiscing of lives left behind, families they’d never see again. It seemed the awareness that the Wall would likely fall put everyone in a nostalgic mood. As Sansa visited the various groups, she heard stories of mischievous siblings, of first kisses, of drunken nights and bad (though hilarious) life choices.

She was drawn to a larger group of men who sat on benches pulled into a giant circle surrounding a few small bonfires. One of the men was singing a somber tune that seemed welcome by his comrades. As he held the last note several applauded while others raised their cups.

No doubt thinking it was their last chance to hear a woman’s voice, several men coaxed Sansa into agreeing to a song, “I haven’t sung for a crowd in years,” she warned them, but they weren’t bothered.

 _I only know sad songs._ She had hoped to sing something lively to cheer the men up, but they seemed captivated by the previous tune, which was about a man’s last thoughts as he lay dying. It reminded Sansa of another song she knew, and so she began the simple melody, singing into the fire before her.

> _Down in the Willow garden_
> 
> _Where me and my love did meet_
> 
> _There we sat a-courtin'_
> 
> _My love dropped off to sleep_
> 
> _I had a bottle of Burgundy wine_
> 
> _Which my true love did not know_
> 
> _And there I poisoned that dear little girl_
> 
> _Down on the banks below_
> 
> _I stabbed her with my dagger_
> 
> _It was a bloody knife_
> 
> _I threw her into the river_
> 
> _Which was a dreadful sight_
> 
> _My father often told me_
> 
> _That gold would set me free_
> 
> _If I would murder that dear little girl_
> 
> _Whose name was Rose Connolly_
> 
> _And now he sits by his own cottage door_
> 
> _A-wiping his tear-dimmed eyes_
> 
> _And now he waits for his own dear son_
> 
> _Upon the scaffold high_
> 
> _My race is run, beneath the sun_
> 
> _Though Hells now waiting for me_
> 
> _For I have murdered that dear little girl_
> 
> _Whose name was Rose Connelly_

As she finished her eyes lingered on the flames. A few moments of silence passed, and she looked up, wondering why there was no polite applause. To her surprise, the faces were all staring back at her, and many of them had tears in their eyes or on their cheeks.

She began to sweat upon realizing her error. She’d just sung a song about a man being executed for murdering his wife to collect her family’s wealth… and she’d sung it to a group of men condemned to the Wall, many no doubt for the crime of murder or violence against women.

She wanted to apologize but there was no way to do so without alluding to their past crimes, so she said nothing. Another second passed before every man, in unison, began clapping. From the expressions on their faces she knew they were not clapping out of some sense of decorum in the presence of a queen. They looked truly moved and even grateful. She bowed her head humbly before catching Sandor’s eye on the far side of the circle. At some point during her rendition he’d approached to listen, and now stood looking remorseful himself, though for what she did not know _._

After their clapping died down, Sansa was ready to sip her ale in silence, but the men goaded her to sing again. This time she issued a different warning accompanied by a small chuckle, “The only other song I know is even more dour than that one, I’m afraid. Certainly you’d prefer a change of pace, which I’m not suited to provide.” But they continued their pleas and she eventually relented, taking a moment to recall the words and hum the memory of a battle tune she’d heard from her father’s guards several times over the years. A few of the verses escaped her but she hoped they’d come to her once she started. If not, her audience seemed forgiving enough.

> _One summer evening drunk to Hells_
> 
> _I sat there nearly lifeless_
> 
> _An old man in the corner hummed_
> 
> _‘Where water lilies grow’_
> 
> _A travelin’ minstrel sang aloud_
> 
> _About a thing called war_
> 
> _And it’s who are you kid and what’s your name_
> 
> _And how would you bloody know?_
> 
> _In blood and death ‘neath a screaming sky_
> 
> _I lay down on the ground_
> 
> _As arms and legs of other men_
> 
> _Were scattered all around_
> 
> _Some cursed, some prayed, some prayed then cursed_
> 
> _Then prayed and bled some more_
> 
> _And the only thing that I could see_
> 
> _Was a pair of brown eyes that was looking at me_
> 
> _But when we got back, labeled parts one to three_
> 
> _There was no pair of brown eyes waiting for me_
> 
> _And a rovin’, a rovin’, a rovin’ I'll go_
> 
> _For a pair of brown eyes_
> 
> _I looked at him he looked at me_
> 
> _All I could do was hate him_
> 
> _While drunken fools and green boys sang_
> 
> _Tunes of elusive lovers_
> 
> _I saw the streams, the rolling hills_
> 
> _Where his brown eyes were waiting_
> 
> _And I thought about a pair of brown eyes_
> 
> _That waited once for me_
> 
> _So drunk to hells I left the place_
> 
> _Sometimes crawling sometimes walking_
> 
> _A hungry sound came across the breeze_
> 
> _So I gave the walls a talking_
> 
> _And I heard the sounds of long ago_
> 
> _From the old canal_
> 
> _And the birds were whistling in the trees_
> 
> _Where the wind was gently laughing_
> 
> _And a rovin’, a rovin’, a rovin’ I'll go_
> 
> _A rovin’, a rovin’, a rovin’ I'll go_
> 
> _And a rovin’, a rovin’, a rovin’ I'll go_
> 
> _For a pair of brown eyes_
> 
> _For a pair of brown eyes_

Truthfully, Sansa didn’t fully understand the meaning of the song. As a girl she imagined it was about a soldier searching for some unknown comrade he’d seen while lying on a battle ground, the memory of which was brought to the soldier’s mind after hearing an old man in a tavern scolding some young minstrel who thinks he knows the terrors of war. But as she sang the song tonight it occurred to her the brown eyes might have belonged to the soldier’s lover – the woman whose memory kept him going through the war – the woman who wasn’t waiting for him when he returned home.

Taking in the faces around her again it was clear that these men were moved by the song, though she wondered how they interpreted its meaning. Her own companions – Jon, Jaime, Beric, Brienne – looked particularly wistful, and Sansa was surprised to see that, just as Sandor had _appeared_ during her last song, he had _vanished_ during this one. As the men clapped and raised their cups, she forced a smile to her lips as her eyes searched for Sandor’s tall frame. She felt inexplicably panicked by his absence, and began walking about the courtyard, attempting not to convey her unease to the many men who smiled or tipped their heads as she passed.

Realizing Brienne was following a few paces back, Sansa turned to the large woman, “I fear I’ve had a bit too much ale and would hate to be the reason for our late departure on the morrow. I’m going to retire for the evening, though please continue to enjoy the festivities.”

Brienne moved to follow, but Sansa could not allow it and came up with the best excuse she could muster, “Please, Brienne, stay down here, one of us must play mother hen to our male companions… I don’t want any of _them_ being the reason for a late start, either.” She winked at Brienne who smirked back before turning to rejoin the members of their party.

Sansa made her way to the main keep but walked past her chambers. Stopping outside the one she knew to be Sandor’s door she was about to knock but stopped herself. If he was in there sleeping off his ale, she did not want her knocking to wake him. Without considering the other _acts_ she might catch him in she quietly pushed open the door and, in the moonlit room, saw Sandor slouched over in a chair, head in his hands.

If he heard her tiptoe in, he made no indication. He did not look up even as she stood but a foot in front of him. He was still as a statue, but she knew he’d been crying, and it made her chest ache. She wanted to steal his pain, to draw it from his body and swallow it where it could live with her own sorrow.

_But how does one comfort this man who rebukes all acts of kindness?_

She did the first thing that came to mind. Very slowly and gently she wrapped her hands around his wrists. She would not pull forcefully – he must permit himself to accept her comfort. After a few seconds she felt his resistance give way, so she guided his compliant hands to rest above her hips. Holding them there a moment until she felt the faintest of grips at her flesh, she moved her hands to place one on his burnt neck, the other on the back of his head, buried in his hair. He stiffened and she fought the urge to withdraw her hands but instead stood firm. Again waiting until the tension in his muscles yielded under her gentle touch, she pulled his head forward until his forehead rested on her upper abdomen. She heard him draw in a great breath of air through his mouth, before letting it out through his nose. Even through her leather doublet and layers of under-clothes she felt its warmth. It soothed her in a way she didn’t know she needed. She stroked his fine black hair with both hands, occasionally letting her fingernails graze his scalp. Whenever she did so his fingers at her waist twitched, but he did not move away or drop his hands.

Their mutual comfort now established, she began pondering what had brought his tears to begin with. She assumed it was her song.

_He’s lived through more battles than most, surely at some point he lost some comrade he had been close to. Perhaps it’s happened many times. Or perhaps I just reminded him of the misery of battle – he seems to not relish it as he once did…_

_As the Hound once did…_

Sleepiness caught up with her and Sansa closed her eyes. She wouldn’t leave him tonight, not until he pushed her away or told her to go. She would stand right here and offer what comfort she could to this man she felt eternally indebted and inexplicably bonded to.

\--------------------------------------------------

_Ten minutes earlier…_

Her lilting voice mesmerized him, and he clearly wasn’t alone. Sandor had thought her laughter was the most pleasing sound in the world, only now he wasn’t so certain. Her laughter had the advantage of being accompanied by her rare smile and even rarer joy, but this _voice_ that poured from her lungs… he was sure he’d heard _better_ singing, not that he cared for it much – but something about _her_ voice carried so much weight, so much emotion… it was as if she were projecting her feelings directly into the hearts of the men around her. Sadness, regret, love, mourning… if she were singing in a foreign tongue, he would still have known the meaning she wished to convey.

Like every other feeling she provoked in him, he couldn’t decide whether to welcome its caress or resist the torture that would follow in its wake. But then some of her words yanked him out of his trance:

_And the only thing that I could see_

_Was a pair of brown eyes that was looking at me_

The image of a moment permanently seared into Sandor’s mind rushed forward. _A pair of brown eyes… could she possibly know?_

He saw clearly the brown eyes of Elder Brother, laying where he’d been slain while Sandor was at the shore, oblivious to the attack on his beloved Quiet Isle – the place and, more precisely, the _man_ who had mended Sandor’s broken body, mind, and spirit. The man who vanquished the Hound and drew forth the man Sandor could – and _would_ – have been, had Gregor never held his face to the flames.

And he was laying there. Dead. Arrow through the neck. Because Sandor was down at the water. Thinking. About _her_.

Sandor couldn’t stand another second of her voice. He wanted to cover his ears or better yet cut them off – one of them was already half-gone. It wasn’t her fault and yet it _was_. He knew it was unfair to blame her and yet he _did._

How could she not see that every time she looked at him, spoke to him, smiled at him, touched him… with each bit of contact she was pushing the knife deeper into his chest, twisting it by a fraction of a fraction of an inch.

He stumbled to his room like a drunk looking for a place to vomit, but it wasn’t vileness he let loose once he entered his quarters, it was tears. Tears for Elder Brother, tears for Sandor Clegane, tears for Sansa Stark and everything she would never be for him.

But then she was at his door, then she was in front of him, then his hands were on her waist and hers were on his head. And by the same magical power that vexed him in the first place, she lifted the curse. His ire, his resentment, his grief – they all slipped away and were replaced by a feeling he couldn’t quite define but was fairly certain a bard would call _love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First song Sansa sings is a version of a song called "Down in the Willow Garden" - or sometimes called Rose Connelley. The original artist is unknown, but you can read about it on wikipedia. My personal favorite version is by Irene and Ellen Kossoy and can be found on Amazon Prime Music and I'm sure other places. 
> 
> Second song is "Pair of Brown Eyes" by the Pogues. (P.S. If you've never listened to the Pogues, you're missing out). Also available on Amazon and other sites and apps.
> 
> Both songs and future songs I'll include in the fic are often tweaked by me to make them fit in Westeros.


	46. Wondering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Traveling back to Winterfell, Sansa meets with one of her bannermen. 
> 
> Tyrion confesses a secret. 
> 
> Sansa ponders Sandor's feelings.

**Sandor**

The next morning Sansa’s group departed Castle Black. Sansa looked sad to bid Jon farewell even though they would likely see each other again very soon. While the Night’s Watch wasn’t giving up, almost everyone in Sansa’s party accepted Melisandre’s vision of the Wall crumbling as the likely outcome.

The return trip to Winterfell was as uneventful as the trip out had been. There was less merriment, or rather – when there was merriment it felt somehow _manic_ – more like people desperate to distract themselves from reality, less like friends sharing laughs and stories around a campfire.

Their unease could be partly blamed on their queen herself – though it was no fault of her own. By day she was as composed as ever. Firm and strong, never complaining, never showing signs of worry or fear… but by night she was restless. At least one night out of every three, whimpers or screams could be heard from her tent. Brienne would wake her from her night terrors, but Theon inevitably would need to go into Sansa’s tent and stay with her until she was comforted enough to return to slumber. After the fourth such incident, only a sennight into their travel, Brienne and Theon switched tents: Theon slept in Sansa’s and Brienne slept alone in what had been Theon’s tent. No one spoke of the impropriety of the sleeping arrangements, or even likely perceived it as such.

Theon’s role was not an enviable one and yet Sandor felt jealous each time. _It should be my arms holding her. My voice hushing her. My fingers wiping away her tears._

Halfway through their journey Lord Hother Umber of Last Hearth and a few of his men met Sansa’s party at the Kingsroad. She and Jaime spent half the day sharing with him the plans that had been made. As her shield Sandor stood in the tent and watched the discussion but did not speak. He observed Sansa. She spoke confidently but he could see she was tired. The skin beneath her eyes was dark, and her cheekbones looked even sharper than usual.

_She isn’t sleeping and is barely eating._

Thankfully, the old Umber lord did nothing to add to Sansa’s woes. He agreed with the plan completely; it made sense that if the Wall should fall all the Houses north of Winterfell would travel to Winterfell to make their stand as one combined force in the North’s largest fortress. There was no reason to fear leaving their castles unguarded – the dead would not ransack or claim them – they had no need for coin or jewels, grains or crops, walls or doors.

Just as on the journey to Castle Black Sandor chose to take first watch each night. The cold was bothersome but so was laying in his tent restlessly, wondering if the little bird was wandering about alone. Yet it wasn’t until the night after they met with Lord Umber that the little bird finally appeared. An hour after everyone else had retired, Sansa exited her tent and walked straight over to where Sandor sat against a tree. She held her hands to the small fire for a few moments before reclining against the tree next to him. The silence did not seem to bother her, but it was quite uncomfortable for him, so he cleared his voice, “Nightmares again, little bird?”

She shook her head, “One needs to sleep to have nightmares. I think I’d rather stay awake.”

“Not good to go too long without sleep. Scrambles your brain, makes you see things that aren’t there, makes you lose your senses.”

She sighed, “I have no intention of going without sleep, I just would like to… delay the inevitable.”

“Aye, fair enough.”

A few more minutes passed before Sandor broke the silence once more, “Your nightmares, are they of _him…_ the Night King?” he clarified, knowing there were a few ‘hims’ that would haunt Sansa’s dreams.

“No, I haven’t dreamt of him since he… caught me,” she touched her arm lightly where the handprint-shaped burn lay beneath her sleeve.

“So what’s troubling you… or shouldn’t I ask?” he mumbled.

He thought she wasn’t going to answer when finally a small voice spoke, “I just keep worrying that we’ll fail. That _I’ll_ fail. Or that I already did by not agreeing to Daenerys’ terms in the first place…” she could hear the disagreement forming in his throat, “don’t… I know you didn’t like her terms any more than I did. But as Tyrion said, if we all die it won’t matter who sits on the throne, whether the North has its independence, whether I’m made to marry… there will be no North, there will be no _me_ … and eventually there will probably be no throne.”

“Aye, and there will be no one left to worry, no one left to suffer. Let the dead take this place if they want it, it’s a fucking shite hole anyway.”

Sansa snorted, “You always know just what to say.”

“Seriously though, little bird, you told me you don’t fear death, you only fear a cage. Well if you fail as you think you may, you’ll be dead… or one of _them_ – free to roam the continent for eternity. The dead won’t put you in a cage.”

Sansa laid her head against his shoulder and sighed, “I don’t fear my own death, I fear for everyone else. Just because I’m not afraid of dying doesn’t mean they share my sentiment.”

“Well then let them worry about their own arses. It’s not your job to keep them alive.”

She looked up at him and the closeness of her face to his made his chest hurt. He could feel the warmth of her breath, smell the wine she’d drank with supper. “Isn’t it though? I’m their _queen,_ ” she pronounced the title with loathing, as always.

_Still don’t think you’re fit to be queen, do you?_

He sighed, “After everything people have seen in the last few years, if they’re stupid enough to wait around for a King or Queen to save them then they deserve their fate.”

She looked disheartened, “I didn’t mean _you_ , little bird. I just mean… you can only do so much. You may be a queen and a damned good one at that, but you’re still _one_ _person_. If we fail the blame won’t be on you. It will be on all of us… or mayhap none of us.”

She seemed to be appeased for the moment as she moved her head to nuzzle it in the space between his neck and shoulder. The tickle of her hair and breath was the most delightful torture he could imagine. He didn’t want her to leave but was afraid she would yield to the cold and seek out the shelter of her tent. Taking a chance he looped his right arm under her knees and his left around her back and scooped her up into his lap. He shifted her body a bit to free his cloak then wrapped it around her.

He expected her to resist, to say it wasn’t proper to be sitting in his lap here out in the open where anyone could see, but she didn’t. She said nothing. With her face still pressed into his neck, her left hand lazily traced circles on his arm. It must have soothed both of them because the next thing he knew Sandor woke up, thinking only minutes passed until he noticed the first faint signs of light in the sky.

_Fuck!_

He looked around and saw no activity in the camp. He gently shook Sansa awake and she looked at him confused at first then rubbed her eyes and went to lay back against him.

_Gods, why can’t the night last forever?_

He woke her again, “Little bird, the others will wake up soon, go back to your tent, back to your bed.” She nodded and complied.

Sandor cursed himself. He fell asleep on watch. He’d never done that even when he was a squire. But thankfully no harm had come of his mistake. The camp was quiet, with no signs it had been disturbed. He relit his small fire and sat back down just as a few of the guards started emerging from their tents. The one who normally took second shift – who Sandor normally would have woken – looked around, confused. Sandor just muttered, “Couldn’t sleep last night. Figured no sense in waking you just to go lay awake in my tent.”

The young man yawned and stared at him, “You were awake all night?”

“Aye, that’s what I just said isn’t it?” he growled. The young guard hastily retreated to his duties.

Sandor set about his morning tasks, letting out a sigh of relief that he and the little bird had slept the whole night without being discovered. There was a chance someone had left their tent in the night and seen the pair but if they had there’d be nothing truly improper in what they saw. They were fully dressed and sound asleep.

Just then another realization dawned on Sandor. _Sansa slept through the whole night without having a nightmare._ A surge of pride swelled in him, though he didn’t dare let himself wonder why his presence had such a comforting effect on the girl. _It may have just been a coincidence…_ But the little bird didn’t believe in coincidences, she had told him… and he was starting to think she had the right of it.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

They would be back at Winterfell in two days and Tyrion was still struggling with the same dilemma he’d had since Daenerys Targaryen flew away from Castle Black. He had information he wanted to share with Sansa – information that could potentially help with the battle to come – yet years ago he had promised himself he would take the knowledge to his grave. Then again, that was before the dead came back to life and threatened every living creature in Westeros.

Tyrion made his decision and asked Lady Sansa to dine with him in his tent that evening – privately. Even Jaime, his brother and tentmate, was not invited to join them – Tyrion wanted as few people to hear what he had to say as possible.

Sansa could clearly sense his hesitance, “Is something amiss, my lord?”

“No, my lady, aside from the obvious,” Tyrion tried to joke. “I asked to speak with you because I may have a potential solution to the niggly problem of the Night King’s army, though I admit I’m reluctant to share this information, which is why I hope we can keep it between us, at least until such a time as we need to act on the information – if ever.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Tyrion pressed his hands together as if in prayer, holding his fingertips to his mouth, “Right, where to begin? I assume you remember the Battle of the Blackwater.”

_The night Sandor came to me, the night I should have left with him…_

“I certainly do.”

“Then you recall the difficult choice I had to make to fend off Stannis’ attack – I set his fleet and the bay itself aflame with Wildfire.”

Sansa tried not to cringe. The green flames of the Wildfire were what frightened Sandor so much that he came to her in the first place – then left her alone in the city of her torment.

“I do recall that unfortunate event.”

“What you may not know is that the barrels of Wildfire I used were part of the underground cache placed there by the Mad King some years before.”

Sansa shifted, “I did not know that. Please go on.”

“The supply that was unused the night of the battle I did not trust in my nephew or sister’s hands. So I secretly transported it to caverns near Casterly Rock.”

“ _Secretly?_ My lord, unless you literally carted every barrel there yourself, it could not be a secret… unless those that helped you have been permanently silenced…”

“Indeed, they were silenced, and I hope it is permanent. I gave each of the men enough gold to last five lifetimes, and put them on a ship bound for Braavos, with some rather _pleasant_ company, also paid for in advance. I will note they are Lannister men that I found to be quite _discrete_ over the years.”

Sansa shook her head, “I’ll have to defer to your judgment in that regard. I assume you’re telling me this because you think we should use the Wildfire against the wights?”

“I’m telling you we should _consider_ it. _Carefully_.”

“Educate me, Lord Tyrion. How dangerous is transporting Wildfire?”

“Extremely – which shows just how desperate I was to ensure it stayed out of Cersei and Joffrey’s hands.”

“And where it is hidden – would we even be able to gain access it?”

“With some cunning, yes, it is far enough away from the castle that our presence could go undetected. There is also the potential to have it gifted to us, _willingly_.”

“You’re talking about an alliance with your father again.”

“Yes, though a simpler one. He would give us only the Wildfire, not commit any of his men, and we’d give him something comparable that he desires.”

“Like?”

“Like a marriage between you and my brother, or a commitment of future support when Daenerys launches her attack.”

“I do not wish to make Daenerys our enemy, and I’m not quite ready to take the Lannister name – again… meaning no offense.”

“None taken. Perhaps a promise for the North to remain neutral in the upcoming war against Daenerys would be enough for him. As I said before, his chances against her are fair… his chances against her _and_ us are fairly bleak.”

“Perhaps, though Daenerys may see even _that_ as an act of war. I’ll consider what you’ve told me, but I’m inclined to say we’re better off not risking the transport of Wildfire all the way from Casterly Rock to Winterfell, not to mention the risk of making an enemy of Daenerys Targaryen. Further, I’ve seen the way Wildfire spreads, I’d rather not intentionally set our fields aflame. We may end up dying along with the Night King’s army.”

“Fair enough, my lady. I share all of your concerns. I only thought it would be wise to make sure my queen was fully aware of all the options available to her.”

Sansa nodded, “I appreciate your telling me this. As I said, it will stay between us. I will think on this further, I imagine I have a small window to consider this – it would take a moon’s turn to transport the Wildfire to Winterfell, I imagine.”

Tyrion nodded then bowed to his queen as she exited his tent.

\-----------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

As Theon snored on his bedroll Sansa resisted the urge to leave her tent to find Sandor as she’d done four times in the past sennight – including the time she slept the entire night in his lap. It was the best sleep she’d had in years. But she was beginning to feel confused by the effect his proximity had on her. She didn’t deny her attraction to him. She felt it even back in King’s Landing, to a much lesser extent. To her surprise though, her attraction to him never subsided, even after he left King’s Landing the night of the battle. She thought of him frequently while in the Vale with Petyr, often summoning his image when Petyr was using her body to pleasure himself. She tried thinking of him in that way when Ramsay took her, though, truthfully, she did not need to – sex was the least painful thing Ramsay did to her. She was actually relieved on the nights he came to her for that and that alone, infrequent as it was. More often than not he would use his sharp dagger to make her bleed, then would take himself in hand and spill his seed on her. He knew that was more humiliating than taking her the traditional way a man takes his wife. No, she did not fantasize about Sandor during her time with Ramsay, instead she fantasized of the _Hound_ coming to save her. She imagined him showing up at her bedroom door covered in the blood of the dozens of Bolton guards he would cut through to get to her. When he’d find Ramsay in her room the Hound would take his time inflicting every cut, flay, burn, and lash the man had ever marred Sansa’s once beautiful skin with. Then he’d do it again. And again. Ever obedient, he would only end Ramsay’s suffering when Sansa gave her permission.

After escaping Ramsay her fantasies returned to Sandor; she didn’t need the Hound anymore. During the moons that followed many men vied for her affection. Some were quite handsome, some were quite brave, kind, intelligent, honorable… but none of them were _him._ She accepted the fact that the man she longed for was a ghost – Brienne told her the Hound was dead, killed at the Saltpans while defending Arya from Brienne. It was a needless death, as Brienne was only trying to bring Arya home.

 _But if Sandor didn’t fight Brienne – if he allowed her to take Arya, would Arya have ended up at Winterfell with the Boltons? Would she have taken my place as the target of Ramsay’s malevolence?_ That would likely have been the case, and it made Sansa care even more for Sandor, because he truly did protect Arya.

No, there was no use denying her feelings for Sandor Clegane, even if she couldn’t fully define what those feelings were. _Am I in love with him?_ Regardless of what it was called, what tormented her now was not knowing whether he shared the same sentiment. Her attraction to him was more than physical. For reasons she didn’t understand everything about him was so... _perfect._ His coarse language and cursing amused her. It seemed the rougher he tried to be, the more charming he actually was. And then there were those times he _wasn’t_ rough – when he held her tenderly... It wasn’t just his size and strength that comforted her, it was his very _essence_. His warmth, his scent, his energy, his voice… it all combined to form this _thing_ that she was helplessly drawn to.

But what was she to him? The same questions arose that she had after the first night she went to his room at Castle Black. She knew he found her beautiful, as most men did (not that her beauty had ever brought her anything but pain). She knew he was protective of her, but was it _her_ that made him so protective, or was it just his nature? After all, he’d been the shield to the King himself – only the bravest, strongest, and most fiercely protective men would be even considered for that position. Was his loyalty to her no different than the loyalty he gave the Lannisters and Baratheons for two decades of his life?

But no, there was that night – the night they _almost_ laid together. To her, their kisses felt passionate, there was true _emotion_ behind them, but did he feel the same? Sansa knew that a man lusting after a woman could easily be mistaken for a man in love with a woman. Was his attraction to her only skin-deep? Was he just trying to take advantage of her apparent willingness? He told her he’d only had whores and wenches in the past – did he want to know what it was like to lay with a well-bred woman at least once in his life?

The idea of giving herself to Sandor excited her, but what if to him it would just be a _romp_? What if he would have her one time and the next morning act no differently than her other retainers? The idea of that made Sansa’s chest hurt. She’d rather never lay with him at all than lay with him and have him shun her afterwards. Yet somehow, she couldn’t imagine him doing that, not to her. The way he spoke to her when no one else was around could be described as almost _sweet_.

_The vicious Hound is sweet to me. Hah! Never thought those words would be spoken._

And he wasn’t the Hound, he wasn’t vicious. He could still be intimidating, but his time away on the Quiet Isle had clearly changed him. Had it changed him enough that he could love a woman, settle down with her, wed her?

_Gods, you’re a lovesick fool… you are thinking that far ahead, yet you don’t even know if he thinks of you in that way at all._

Sansa desperately wished there was a woman to talk to about her dilemma, someone experienced with lovers. Brienne would _not_ do. Sansa wondered if there’d be a way to discreetly ask one of the men in her group – but which one? Theon only had experience with whores as far as Sansa knew. Jaime only had experience with one woman, and their bond was forged in the womb. Thoros was a priest, so Sansa assumed he was celibate. Tormund had bragged of having many lovers – including a female bear – so she wouldn’t trust the soundness of his opinions on the subject of love.

That left Tyrion and Beric. Tyrion was a world-renowned whoremonger, though he seemed capable of having deeper relations with a woman, as Sansa suspected he had with her former maid, Shea. Beric used to have a reputation for being popular with women. Sansa remembered how handsome he looked the day of her father’s tourney in King’s Landing.

_That wasn’t even five years ago, but it feels like a lifetime!_

Time and war had taken its toll on Beric, including one of his eyes, though he was still handsome. He also seemed wise and kind. As a man of faith, she also thought he was trustworthy, which was important in case she inadvertently revealed her paramour in the process of seeking counsel on the topic of men and love. There was another advantage to talking to Beric – he knew Sandor better than the other men here, having spent a moon traveling with him and Thoros after Sandor left the Quiet Isle. 

With a mission in mind, Sansa allowed herself to drift to sleep.


	47. Love Advice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa seeks advice.

**Beric**

_She certainly is talkative today._

They’d been riding since just after dawn, and the young queen had been talking to him almost the entire time. She was curious about his experiences, or rather his _visions_ that led him to the Wall in the first place. He told her of his time with the Brotherhood without Banners, and then of the frightful images he’d seen in the flames. At first, he thought she was trying to gather as much intelligence on their enemy as possible, but eventually realized she was more interested in the nature of the visions themselves. _“How do they come to you?”_ she had asked. _“Do you see them every time you look in the flames or only under certain conditions?” “Can anyone see them, or only people blessed by the Lord of Light?”_

He answered her questions graciously but knew it wasn’t simple curiosity that motivated her. She was a quiet person who listened more than she spoke. If she was asking these questions, she had a reason.

“It pleases me very much to converse with you on any topic, your grace, but I am curious if you have a particular reason to want to know so many details about my visions.”

They had fallen back from the rest of the group, only Sandor was behind them as he refused to let his charge out of his sight, but he remained a few horse-lengths back as was customary. Even so, Sansa looked around timidly before answering Beric’s question.

“You are most astute, Ser – and please, call me Sansa – I admit I do have a reason, though I’d prefer not share it, I think you’ll find it silly.”

She smiled shyly at him. _Is she flirting with me?_ It had been a long time since anyone had flirted with him, but Beric was never one to pass up the chance for a little harmless banter with a beautiful woman.

“Sansa – and you may call me _Beric_ – I can’t imagine anything that goes on in your clever mind could ever be _silly_. And if it is, well I might just admire you more for it – the world needs more silliness, don’t you think?”

She smiled at him, “You’re right, Ser… _Beric_ … Perhaps silly is the wrong word. _Selfish_ is a more accurate description… but let’s not worry about that, surely there is something else we can talk about.”

“Sansa, I am even _more_ certain that nothing you think or say could be truly selfish. Come now, tell me what is on your mind.”

She shrugged, seemingly still hesitant to share her thoughts, though eventually she yielded, “It’s just that… it would be _convenient_ at times if I could be gifted with some… _foresight_.”

“That would be convenient for everyone, what _specifically_ do you wish to have foresight into?”

She bit her slip nervously. _Gods she’s adorable, no wonder Clegane is stuck on her._

“It seems wrong to think about anything other than the battle to come, and believe me, that is what occupies my mind 95% of the time…”

“But…?”

“But the other 5% of the time I wonder what will come next. If we survive, I mean. If we are victorious.”

“You wonder what comes next for the realm, or what comes next for _you_?” He was beginning to think her dilemma was of a personal nature based on her apparent humiliation in speaking about it.

She chewed her lip again, “Astute you are indeed.” She sighed, “You’ve probably heard that I have refused various marriage proposals over the past moons, and have made it clear that I will marry only when I am ready, and it will be a man of _my_ choosing…”

“I’ve heard something to that effect.”

“But I also have a greater responsibility, to secure the most advantageous alliance I can for the North.”

He nodded solemnly, “It is a burden that all highborn share. You have so many opportunities not afforded to others, but you are not given the freedom to choose your own partner.”

“Precisely. I want to honor myself but also my people, but I’ve been deceived too many times by men who… well, who cared only for my claim, or who cared naught for me at all.”

“You want foresight into your future Lord Husband’s character, to avoid another Joffrey or…”

“Yes, partly. But not just into his character. I suppose this is the part that I’m afraid is selfish, but… would it be wrong for me to hope my future husband… _loves_ me?” She nearly whispered the last two words.

Beric laughed and it made Sansa blush. He quickly tried to alleviate her humiliation, “Apologies, my lady, I’m not laughing at you because I think you’re being selfish _or_ silly… I’m laughing because you seem _ashamed_ to want something that is so _fundamental.”_

“But as you just said, Beric, it is not _fundamental_ for us _highborn_ ,” she spoke indignantly.

“You are right, I understand, but my- Sansa you are in the position to choose your own husband. No one can force you into a marriage against your will. You may marry whoever you wish! Whoever is worthy of you – whoever _loves_ you as you love him.”

“That’s what I’m asking you! How will I _know_ that a man loves me? Men are stubborn, in my brief experience. They are also prideful; they say one thing but mean another, because they are always trying to maintain an image of their... their… _manliness.”_

“It sounds like you are thinking of someone specific.”

There was nothing _slight_ about her blush now, “I am certainly _not_. I just know from experience, as I said.”

Beric sighed. _I’ll let her have that lie._ “I feel we’ve gotten off course, and I’m certainly the one to blame. Sansa, are you asking me if there is a way to use the flames to see who your future husband is and whether he will love you? Or are you asking me how to know if a man loves you?”

“Well, I had been thinking the former would be most convenient, as I said, though I suppose the latter may have to suffice.” _She’s trying too hard to be casual._

“As for the former, if the Lord of Light wants to show you your future he will, you need only look into the flames. But there are few people who he gifts – or curses – with foresight… As for the latter, it can be difficult to know a man’s heart for the reasons you pointed out. My only advice would be to trust your _own_ heart – it will know things your mind cannot.”

She shook her head, unsatisfied, “I have a hard time following my heart, Beric. I’d prefer a more scientific approach.”

“Well, there are ways to _test_ men, though as a God-fearing man I hate to encourage such deceptions.”

“I’m not particularly good at deception, if that eases your conscience.”

Beric laughed, “You can tell a man that you covet another and see how he reacts.”

She nodded her understanding, “Ahh, he will confess his love to me then, for fear of losing me to the other?”

“God no! He will act like a total arse! He will get angry and mean, act like he doesn’t need you, but you must be wise enough to see that behind anger is _hurt_. And a woman can only hurt a man if he has feelings for her. No man has ever lashed out at a whore for laying with other men.”

She nodded her understanding, “But if I’d rather not employ this trickery, are there signs I can look for?”

Beric shrugged, “I suppose the times I’ve been in love all had a few things in common.”

“Like?”

“Like my wanting to be a better man, for her; wanting to make myself worthy of her. Wanting to be near her whenever possible, even if it meant spending less time doing other things I enjoyed. Wanting to keep her safe and warm and happy even if I had to sacrifice my own safety or comfort to give it to her.”

“Hmm… would you speak to her differently than you spoke to women you were less… _serious_ about?”

“I’d have to think on it, but I suppose so. I probably spoke to her more gently. I probably had pet names for her, like ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’…”

Sansa nodded, “Thank you, Beric. This is most helpful.”

“It is my pleasure. I hope you know, Sansa, whoever he is, he is a very lucky man.”

“I’ll tell him you think so, when I meet him.”

He would not press any further, but he could swear he saw the faintest trace of a smile. Indeed, she was not skilled in deception, for Beric recognized the smile as a sure sign that she was lying.

She excused herself to ride with Brienne. As she trotted ahead, Beric turned to look at Clegane, staring at the man as he rode by to catch up with his charge.

“Fuck you looking at?” he asked rhetorically as he passed Beric.

To the large man’s back Beric whispered, “A lucky man.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

_Fucking golden-haired prick._

For the past hour Sandor rode behind Sansa, who was riding between Brienne and Jaime. The _handsome_ knight was being _charming_ as always, making the women throw their heads back in giggles at his jokes and stories.

_Arrogant cocksucker. Let’s see how smug you are without your other hand._

At the moment, Jaime was parodying his father, Tywin Lannister, and the way he used his sharp tongue to cut down lesser men who dared to challenge him. Sandor was reticent to admit the Great Lion seemed better at formulating insults than even Sandor himself.

_And what the fuck was the little bird chirping to Beric about all morning?_

He had been riding behind Beric and Sansa as they spoke for a good two hours. At first, he was trying to impress her with tales of his _heroism_ , but at some point their conversation seemed to turn to a more personal topic, as their tones became hushed. Even with one bad ear Sandor had excellent hearing, so he could make out some of their words. ‘Marry’, ‘love’, ‘husband’. He could tell by their demeanor that Sansa was the one asking and Beric the one answering. But why would the little bird be asking _him_ about husbands and love? She barely ever spoke to the man, surely there were other people she could speak to among this group. She often sought the Kingslayer’s counsel, or Sandor’s… _Unless…_

_Was the Kingslayer the subject of her questions? Is she thinking about marrying him?_

Sandor never saw anything that resembled romance between the two of them, but there was that day she slapped Sandor for daring to question her affiliation with the Lannister. And as soon as she was done speaking with Beric she rode straight to Jaime and the wench. She even looked _happy_ talking with them – happy listening to _him._ Had Beric told her that he thought Jaime would be a worthy match for her?

_He is a worthy match; he is heir to Casterly Rock. He can be Warden of the West if he only decides to claim his birthright._

_Fuck._

As Sandor was imagining creative ways to kill the lion, Tormund rode up beside him. Sandor saw the Wildling staring at him but ignored it, hoping he would leave. After several minutes Sandor realized that would not be the case, “I know I’m beautiful, but it’s not polite to stare.”

“The big man jokes, but he is beautiful.”

Sandor turned to stare at him. _This fucker’s crazier than he looks._

“Fuck off, ginger.”

“Why are you angry all the time?”

“Got my reasons.”

“Everyone’s got reasons.”

“Got more than most, then.”

“I doubt that.”

Sandor rolled his eyes.

“You think you’ve got more reasons than the _dwarf_? How about the _one-handed_ knight? How about the Last Wolf?”

_Lady Melisandre tell you to say that?_

“…how about me? My people went from 50,000 to under 5,000 in a few years.”

“What a pity.”

“You’ll have to do better than that to get rid of me.”

“Willing to try.”

“Hah! You are funny, I’ll give you that. Mean and funny,” Tormund leaned in closer, lowering his voice, “but I know what else you are, too.”

“What’s that – big? Ugly? Save your breath.”

Tormund ignored him, “Sad.”

“Fuck off.”

“You have sad eyes.”

“And you have crazy eyes; now fuck off.”

Tormund did not leave but was quiet for a few moments before nodding his chin at the group riding in front of them, “Pretty sight, eh? I’ll take all three of ‘em in my bed.”

Sandor snapped his head around, “You _are_ a mad fucker, aren’t you?”

“Never denied it,” Tormund grinned.

“That what you do with your _freedom_ up there – fuck anything that walks?”

Sandor meant it as an insult, but Tormund shrugged, “Basically.”

Sandor huffed, “Good to know. I’ll be sure to keep my distance.”

Tormund laughed heartily, which made Sansa, Jaime, and Brienne all turn around and cast Sandor a puzzled gaze. He just shook his head. Just before Sansa turned her head back to the road in front of her Sandor thought he caught an amused smirk on her sweet little mouth.

Tormund’s laughter died down, “But seriously, I do have a dilemma.”

Sandor couldn’t resist, “What’s that, horse or sheep?”

Tormund chuckled, “Something like that…”

For the third time that day Sandor looked at the redhead incredulously.

“I can’t decide whether to make beautiful _giant_ babies with that one,” he pointed his chin at Brienne, “or beautiful _red-haired_ babies with that one,” he nodded toward Sansa.

If it were any other man Sandor would have cut him in half for speaking about Sansa that way, but he needn’t waste the effort on the delusional Wildling. “If you even _try_ to do it with _either_ of them, you’re going to lose your baby-maker.”

Tormund misunderstood, “I knew you were protective of Red Wolf, but I didn’t think you cared where the big beauty made her bed.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “ _I_ won’t be doing the snipping, they’re more than capable of doing it themselves.”

Tormund seemed to genuinely ponder Sandor’s words, “Before or after?” Sandor snorted and shook his head, but Tormund was undeterred, “I need to know! The big one I think before, she’s got nothing but rage in her beautiful blue eyes. But the Red Wolf… well you know how we are, the ones kissed by fire, got an unquenchable thirst. I think she might give me a go first, and I can think of worse ways to die.”

Sandor felt rage build inside him. He gritted his teeth, “That’s your bloody queen, speak about her like that again and I’ll save her the trouble – _I’ll_ cut off your baby-maker, your word-maker, and both your axe-throwers, turn you into a fucking gimp and toss you back over the wall.”

Tormund threw his hands up in surrender though did not look the least bit intimidated, “Fair enough, big man. I see the lady’s spoken for! But she’s not my _queen_ – Free Folk bend the knee to no one.”

“She’s not _spoken_ for, just doesn’t need men like you getting any ideas.”

“As you say…” Tormund smirked. Sandor felt his face flushing but this time with embarrassment instead of rage. _Here I am defending her_ honor _… let her_ Golden Knight _do the job._

Desperate to change the subject Sandor calmed his voice and continued, “So what’s the story, anyway – you call her Lady Wolf, Red Wolf, Last Wolf… I even heard you call her Lady Crow once. Can’t you make up your mind?”

Tormund nodded, “She’s all of them! When I first met her, I thought she was one of the crows – it was enough to make me want to take the black! So I called her Lady Crow. Then Jon told me she was his sister, a Stark, so I started calling her Lady Wolf or Last Wolf after he told me about their family. But after the battle I started calling her Red Wolf.”

“Because of her hair?”

“No, because she was covered in blood. Couldn’t tell where her hair ended and her skin began.”

Sandor felt sick imagining his little bird so gravely injured. She told him she took two arrows, but he didn’t let himself think on it at the time. “It was that bad, eh?” he tried to sound casual.

“Bad for _them_.”

“What?”

“Bad for the ones whose blood it was. She took her licks, but you know how battle is: if you’re breathing when it’s over, you’re lucky.”

Sandor was stunned. He knew the little bird had been in the battle, knew she’d been injured, but he never truly pictured her in the fray, wielding a weapon, killing men. The little she shared with him about her experience she made it sound as if she was a hapless bystander.

As had become all too common for him, Sandor was torn between admiration and resentment. The little bird never made it easy on him. He lived his entire life putting every person he knew into one of two simple categories: the ones I hate, and the ones I tolerate. He hated Gregor, hated Tyrion, hated Meryn fucking Trant, grew to hate Joffrey and Cersei… he tolerated Tywin, Jaime, Ilyn Payne, Ser Barristan… it was not until the little bird flew into King’s Landing that he had to create a new category, though he didn’t even know what to call it. He only knew half the time he placed her there, and the other half of the time he placed her with those he hated, but it was never because she’d done anything mean or cruel to him, it was because she made him hate himself.


	48. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets her answer.

**Sandor**

By the time they arrived at Winterfell Sandor was downright irate. The little bird hadn’t come out of her tent the past two nights as he’d hoped she would. The past two days while riding she barely spoke to him other than what was necessary. She rode mostly with Jaime, Brienne, Podrick, and Tyrion. Occasionally the ginger would join them. Sandor rode behind them with Beric and Thoros, but knew he was poor company when the pair eventually stopped trying to make conversation with him. Theon rode in silence and away from the others, as usual, forming part of the perimeter along with the guards.

They rode through the North Gate just before evening meal. They were as hungry as they were weary, so they all headed to the large dining hall to sup with the other castle residents, who were happy to see their Queen returned.

Sansa ate at the high table with Lyanna Mormont, Steward Sedgwell, Maester Damon, Castellan Ryswell, and Ser Daryl. From where Sandor sat, he could tell they were filling her in on all that transpired in the two moons she was away. She looked tired but listened intently.

Sandor sat at an empty table and grabbed an entire pitcher of wine from a passing servant. He intended on getting shamelessly drunk and wanted to do so alone. Unfortunately but not surprisingly, he wouldn’t get his way. Brienne, Jaime, and Tyrion sat down across from him, and soon Tormund, Beric, and Thoros sat on the bench beside him.

_As if I haven’t had enough of these buggers in the past two moons._

Everyone but Sandor seemed to be cheerful, reinvigorated by the hearty meal and the castle’s warmth. Sandor did not share their sentiment, and sat drinking sullenly, not caring what anyone thought. Eventually Jaime tried to make conversation, “What’s got you looking so dire, or should I say, more dire than usual?”

“The company, I suppose.”

Jaime feigned insult, “I thought we were all friends now, Clegane!”

“I don’t have friends,” he drank deeply and waved over another servant for more wine.

Jaime wouldn’t surrender, “Sounds lonely, everyone needs friends. Even dogs have their packs, don’t they?”

“Would you shut up and leave me to drink in peace?”

Jaime looked tempted to say more, but instead shook his head and turned his attention to his other companions.

_Fucking Kingslayer. Born handsome, born rich. Fucks his sister and still women go weak in the knees when he struts by. Kills a King and lives to tell about it. Betrays his own family only to find a new one. Everyone dotes on him – ‘Oh poor Ser Jaime, losing his sword hand’. I’d cut off my own hand if I could get even half of his luck. No one ever felt sorry for me, losing half my face._

Sandor drank an entire goblet of wine in one swig. Tyrion noticed, “Slow down, Clegane, even a man your size must have a limit.”

“Shut it dwarf, don’t need a mommy, or a nurse.”

“No, but another pitcher of wine and you’ll be praying for both.”

“Like you should lecture anyone on the topic of _drinking.”_

“Fair enough, just trying to help.”

“Save your _help_ for someone who wants it.” He downed another goblet, but his rage only accrued.

_What was she playing at, all those little smiles she sent my way? Sitting and talking with me for hours each night. Laying her head on my shoulder. Falling asleep in my arms? The night she came into_ my _room, started kissing_ me. _Was she just practicing? Trying to conquer her fears on me so she can hold nothing back for the Kingslayer?_

His head was spinning but he welcomed it. He wanted to drink until the little bird was out of his head. He wanted to pull a wench into his lap, show his _queen_ how little she meant to him. He downed another goblet while looking for a suitable target. _Need to find a pretty wench, no plain girl will do._

Jaime spoke again, “Truly, Clegane, I know we’re all troubled by what we’ve learned, worried about what’s to come, but there is much to be done starting on the morrow. I don’t think our queen will appreciate it if you spend the day sleeping one off.”

Sandor rose on unsteady legs. _Fuck, I am too drunk._ But he was passed the point of caring, he shoved his finger hard into Jaime’s chest, “What do you know about what our _queen_ wants? She doesn’t need you to s-speak for her.”

“You’re correct, I don’t need Ser Jaime to speak for me, I’ll tell you myself – go to bed, Clegane,” he hadn’t noticed her arrival but there she was standing next to him, hand grasping his shield arm firmly.

He pulled his arm away violently, “I’ll go to bed when I’m good and ready. I’m your shield, not your ward.”

“Yet you’re acting like a child. Go to bed, I’ll not say it again.”

He wobbled as he growled at her, “You _asking_ or _commanding,_ your grace?”

Jaime and Brienne rose, intent on defending their queen’s honor, but with a calm hand she bid them sit, “I am _asking_ you, for your own good, though I’d prefer you not dishonor me by refusing my request.”

He stared at her a moment, though it was difficult to focus his eyes, “Fuck it. I’ll find better company with the mice in my walls.” He stumbled out of the dining room, scowling at everyone in his path.

He began walking toward the Guards Hall before remembering Sansa had assigned him new quarters near hers shortly before they departed Winterfell. As her sworn shield, he was to be near her at all times unless she ordered him away. As he fumbled with his armor, he was regretting his decision to accept the position. _Just what I need – to spend the rest of my life standing behind her and her_ husband _. I’ll stand outside their door when he beds her. See her wear that gaudy crimson and gold when she’d look so much prettier in black and yellow._

Minutes had passed and he’d only managed to remove his sword belt and greaves and was now struggling with his pauldrons; his fingers were clumsy with drink and rage.

_Apparently, she’d rather have a sister-fucker than a man with half a face. The man who sired Joffrey, that cunt._

He knew the wine was making him irrational. Whether she married Jaime or another, she would never be his. Even if she returned his feelings, she couldn’t choose someone whose only claim was to a tiny keep, someone who half the realm believed to be a butcher, and the other half only knew as Joffrey’s dog.

_So why do you resent her?_

His pauldrons finally dropped to the floor as a firm knock sounded at his door.

_If the Lion or the Imp has come here to lecture me, there’s about to be one less Lannister in this world._

He yanked the door open and was stunned to see the little bird standing there, with cold steel in her eyes. She almost knocked him off his drunk feet as she pushed her way into the room.

“Would you care to explain why you are acting like an insolent brute? I’ve hardly seen you drink more than a horn of ale since you’ve been back, I know there is a reason for your behavior.”

_The fucking nerve._

“Aye, there’s a reason.” He stepped closer, “I seem to recall you like me this way, drunk, ill-tempered… isn’t it the Hound you remember so fondly? Might be he’s the one you want,” he reached out to grab a lock of her hair, but she smacked his hand away.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Don’t play dumb with me girl, and I’ve told you before, I’m not one to be trifled with.”

“And how, pray tell, am I _trifling_ with you?”

“You fucking know,” he turned away from her and continued struggling with his vambraces, cursing at the blasted things.

She huffed and grabbed his sword hand, “Let me; you’re so drunk you can’t even untie a simple knot.”

He wanted to swat her hand away, but he was still a dog, still couldn’t resist any small touch she offered. He swayed in place as she deftly untied both vambraces and placed them gently on his small table.

“Arms up,” she commanded. And like a dog, he complied.

She roughly undid the buckles at his sides, pulling the leather straps more tightly than was necessary to free the prong.

“Easy,” he said, though he found her roughness rather alluring.

“Stop crying, it’s no tighter than a woman’s corset or bodice.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

She pushed him to sit in one of the chairs, then poured him a glass of water and went to start a fire in his hearth, “Are you ready to tell me what’s troubling you?”

_No._

_Yes._ But he wouldn’t tell her his own feelings, only warn her about the Kingslayer.

Sandor sighed, “He doesn’t deserve you.”

She looked confused, “Who doesn’t?”

“Your _golden_ knight… Jaime fucking Lannister.”

“What doesn’t he deserve?”

“I told you not to play dumb, girl. He doesn’t deserve _you._ Your affection, your love, your hand.”

“I was unaware that he was seeking it; you seem to know something of his intentions that I do not.”

Sandor snorted, “I see the little bird has learned to lie.”

“And I see the dog has forgotten how to smell one.”

He looked at her, perplexed. _She remembered that? From years ago, when I told her a dog can always smell a lie._

She sighed, “I’ve no intention of marrying Ser Jaime, and I don’t believe he aspires to marry me. Though that doesn’t explain why you were so angry that you drank an entire barrel of wine tonight.”

_Because I love you._

He shook his head, “It doesn’t matter. Suppose I’m just tired of seeing pricks like him get everything – all the choice cuts, while the rest of us are left with the scraps.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “I’d prefer you didn’t compare me to a piece of meat, _choice_ or not…”

“You know what I mean, girl. You’ve already been tied with an inbred cunt, a dwarf, a whoremonger, and a bastard … you really want to add sister-fucker to the list?”

Her face reddened with anger, “You’re right, I should _choose_ better this time.” She rose to leave but he pulled her back by her wrist.

“Fuck, girl, you know that’s not what I mean.”

“Then why don’t you say what you mean? I thought a dog would never lie to me?” She snapped.

“He’s not worthy of you! Alright? _That’s_ what I mean.”

“And who is _worthy_ of me, in your opinion?”

He lowered his head, not willing to voice his greatest hope, “No one is, little bird. That’s the problem.”

“Then I shall marry _no one_ , just as I intended.”

“If that is your _intent_ then why were you gabbing about marriage and love with Beric for over an hour the other morning?”

A haughty smile traced her lips, “Is that why you think I’m going to marry Jaime? Because you overheard bits and pieces of my conversation with Ser Beric?”

“Heard enough to know you were asking Beric about your marriage prospects. Then you spent the rest of the day riding next to your _handsome_ knight, laughing at his fucking jokes, which aren’t even funny, by the way!”

Her smile widened, “As a matter of fact, I find Ser Jaime rather funny, if you can disregard his arrogance. And I _was_ talking to Ser Beric about marriage prospects, in a sense, but not Jaime.”

Sandor felt the worry paint his face, “Who then?”

“No one, as I told you. I only hoped Ser Beric in his _infinite wisdom_ could share some of his knowledge, which he did.”

“Knowledge of what?”

She blushed and looked down at her feet, “Of how to know when a man loves a woman… of how to know if a man loves _me._ ”

Sandor’s throat went dry. He wanted to scream at her ‘look right in front of you!’ … But he didn’t. He couldn’t. There would be no retracting those words once spoken, so he compromised with himself, “Just look around you, little bird, there are no shortage of men who would love you.”

She arched a brow, “Like Joffrey loved me? Or Petyr? Or Ramsay?”

“I won’t let that happen again little bird. You’re a queen now. You marry someone and he mistreats you, just say the word and he’ll be cut down. Hells you don’t need me, you’ve got Brienne, Theon, _Jaime…_ any number of people who’d do it for you without question.”

Slowly she reached her hand out and brushed his wrist with her thumb. Goosebumps prickled his skin. “What if I’d rather avoid that unpleasantness altogether?” She was staring in his eyes, boring into his mind with eyes like spears.

_Say something, you fool! Tell her she_ can _avoid it all, tell her you’ll love her so much she’ll get sick of it. Tell her you’ll fall on your sword before hurting her. Tell her you’ll cherish her; you’ll kiss the very ground she walks on. Say something!_

_…But you don’t know how to love anyone. She needs a man who will whisper sweet nothings in her ear, who will dance with her, who will write poetry for her, who will lay her down gently, who will take her slowly and sweetly. You don’t know about any of that. You only know killing and fucking._

Her smile faded before his eyes. She pulled away her hand.

_She wanted you to say something… is it possible…?_

“Little bird…”

“What?”

“I… nothing, nevermind.”

Agonizing seconds of silence passed, her back turned away from his. He wanted to grab her, hold her, bury his face in her hair and breathe her in until there was nothing left of her but a little bird nested in his chest. He couldn’t tell her how he felt, couldn’t say the irrevocable words, but he could show her, just a little…

He stepped toward her and placed his hands on her upper arms, gently. She could read into it comfort from a friend or affection from a lover. How she responded would tell him which she wanted him to be.

But she didn’t respond at all. She didn’t move away or lean into him. She just stood there like a statue. A beautiful statue. After what felt like an eternity she spoke, “I did lie to you once, though. Well, I lied to many people.”

“Oh?”

“The night I sang, at Castle Black… Do you remember?”

_The night you tore my heart from my chest and then sewed it back in?_ “I remember. What did you lie about?”

“I said I only knew those two songs, but it’s not true. I know many other songs, songs I wrote myself.”

“Aye? Have you never sung them for anyone?”

She shook her head, “They aren’t for their ears. It felt wrong to sing them to so many people…” she shrugged, “… and I suppose I’m a bit afraid. If no one likes them, I fear I might cry.”

“You can sing them to me, if you like. Anything will sound good to me; I couldn’t write a poem or carry a tune to save my life.”

He heard her chuckle, “You speak poetry all the time, just nobody knows it.”

_Nobody but you?_

“Go on then, sing one of your songs. You don’t have to face me if you’re embarrassed, but I want to hear.”

“But you have to promise me something…”

“What’s that?”

“If you don’t like it, please lie to me.”

He laughed, “I won’t have to, but I promise nonetheless.”

She nodded and hummed a few notes before beginning.

> _Just yesterday morning I woke and knew you were gone_
> 
> _Kings and the games they played put an end to you_
> 
> _I walked out this morning and wrote down this song_
> 
> _Too bad I have no one to sing it to_
> 
> _I've seen fire and I've seen rain_
> 
> _I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end_
> 
> _I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend_
> 
> _But I always thought that I'd see you again_
> 
> _Won't you look down upon me, Father_
> 
> _You've got to help me make a stand_
> 
> _You've just got to see me through another day_
> 
> _My body's aching and my time is at hand_
> 
> _And I won't make it any other way_
> 
> _Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain_
> 
> _I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end_
> 
> _I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend_
> 
> _But I always thought that I'd see you again_
> 
> _Been walking my mind to an easy time, my back turned towards the sun_
> 
> _Gods know when the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around_
> 
> _Well, there's plenty of time in the wintery nights_
> 
> _to talk about things to come_
> 
> _Strange dreams and burning things in pieces on the ground_
> 
> _Oh, I've seen fire and I've seen rain_
> 
> _I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end_
> 
> _I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend_
> 
> _But I always thought that I'd see you, darling, one more time again, now_

Sandor was awed. _That song is for me!_

But a lifetime’s worth of doubt told him nothing so sweet from someone so beautiful could be directed at him. But would Sansa be so cruel as to sing him that song if she’d had someone else in mind when she wrote it? She could be cold, but he’d never known her to be cruel.

He took a chance and leaned into her hair, inhaling her scent. Weeks on the road meant she hadn’t washed or oiled her hair, so it wasn’t lavender or almond he smelled, just her. The smell of her skin, of her sweat, and it was intoxicating. It would have made him dizzy if he weren’t already drunk.

“I guess it’s pointless to ask if you liked it—”

“I liked it, little bird. I liked it very much. I… I think it might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.”

She stilled again.

He dared to ask, “Did you write that after… after the Blackwater?”

She nodded.

Before he could stop himself, he had spun her around. His mouth was on hers. His hands were buried in her thick hair. Remembering the promise he made to himself at Castle Black he quickly pulled away: he would not be the instigator; he would let her lead; he would not frighten her away with his lust.

But there was nothing frightened about the way her lips chased his, leaving no more than a second to their parting. She rose up on her toes, and he put one arm around her waist to help her maintain her balance. Her hands were on either side of his neck, fingers twining into his long hair behind his ears.

Her kiss was deep and passionate, their tongues danced in circles. Fingers dug into flesh possessively. As glorious as the kissing was, Sandor was using every ounce of self-restraint to not go further. He wanted to trail kisses down her neck, down her chest. He wanted to tear her cloak and dress off, wanted to grasp her perfect bottom, lift her legs to bring them around his waist. He wanted to take her right there, standing up with her limbs wrapped around him like fingers on a sword hilt, as he drove himself inside her. He wanted her to scream his name, wanted to see her eyes roll back as she peaked around his cock. The part of him that was still the Hound wanted to claim her as his, to mark her with his lips and teeth and fingers. He wanted to ruin her from all other men, wanted to fuck her until she didn’t remember her own name let alone the terrible things that lesser men had done to her.

But he would do none of it, not unless she begged him for it. His hands in her hair turned to clenched fists as he battled his own urges. She pulled away and looked up at him, lips red and wet, eyes dark with want.

_She is a fucking Goddess._

She studied him only a moment as if searching for something in his eyes. She must have found what she was looking for because the next thing he knew she was unlacing his breeches. Then she shoved him down hard in the chair and stared at him. His tunic was still on, but his breeches were down around his ankles. He was exposed and suddenly felt sympathy for the whores who walked around nude in brothels, serving drinks to drooling patrons.

He had nothing to be ashamed of, the Gods who gave him a shite family and a shite face had at least gifted him with a cock worth being proud of. But her staring made him feel vulnerable.

_Is it too big for her? Is she having doubts now?_

“Little bird…”

She put a finger to his lips, silencing him, before replacing it with her lips in a hard and possessive kiss. She was still bent forward when he heard the sound of fabric rustling and looked down to see she was pulling off her boots and breeches, though her dress and cloak were still in place. Seeing he was looking at her she pushed his head back so he his face was toward the ceiling. She brought her lips to his neck, kissing the lump of his throat, licking and sucking and nipping at him. Whatever desire he momentarily lost while she studied him was now reignited, and by the sound of her breathing she felt the same. He only realized his hands were in fists at his sides when she grabbed each of his wrists and led them to her hips – above her dress but under her cloak.

She hovered over him and he could feel the heat and moisture of her woman’s place just above the tip of his manhood. It was twitching involuntarily, instinctively seeking entrance to what was being dangled just out of reach. The anticipation was torture, but it did not last long. Her left hand wrapped around the base of his cock and he hissed out in pleasure. A moment later, with her face buried in his neck, she lowered herself onto him. With the first bit of entry she whimpered, but whether it was pain or pleasure he knew not – perhaps it was both. Three times she lifted away from him before lowering herself down again slowly. With the fourth such motion, he was fully sheathed in her, or as sheathed as he could be in this position. She exhaled her ecstasy against his neck and the tickle of her warm breath sent even more blood rushing to his already swollen cock. She rocked against him, slowly at first, but soon was impaling herself on him forcefully.

The silkiness of her cunt was quite possibly the greatest sensation he’d ever experienced. He dared to raise his hips off the chair to meet hers, not knowing if she’d welcome his thrusts. She did nothing to discourage it, so he continued, driving himself up every time she crashed down. She was moaning and panting into his good ear as she bit and licked at its ridges.

“Fuck little bird,” he groaned, as the pleasure built to be more than he could bare.

_Sansa Stark is riding my cock, she’s moaning in my ear, her mouth is all over me. Gods, she’s spectacular._

Her hands moved to grip his sides beneath his tunic. Her thumbs traced the line of muscle that led from his hips to his cock.

“Gods, Sandor! You’re fucking perfect,” she breathed.

He was shocked to hear her – or anyone – utter those words. In his lust he didn’t let doubt cloud his enjoyment and instead returned the compliment in the only way he knew how, “ _You’re_ perfect, girl. Your mouth, your cunt, men have started wars for less.”

His words disappeared in her mouth as her lips met his again. Her kiss was hungry, needy, selfish – taking everything he had to give and leaving nothing behind. Her tongue only retreated when she moaned his name into his mouth.

_Sansa Stark is moaning my name. She’s sucking on my tongue like it’s made out of candy._

“Sandor, pleeease,” she mewled.

_Fuck me, Sansa Stark is begging me, begging for my cock._

He thrust into her even harder, but he feared he would not last much longer at this pace.

_Hold it in, you useless fuck. Don’t fucking let it end until she screams your name, until her body is trembling against yours in bliss._

She was riding him so hard it was hindering his efforts at restraint.

_Fuck! Think of something else – something disgusting, think of… of… the Imp! Think of Brienne._

“Sandor, Gods, Sandor!”

_She’s close. Sansa Stark is about to come on your dick. Her honey is dripping down your balls. Gods I want to know what it tastes like._

_Shit! Don’t think about that! Think about anything but that!_

Her movements became erratic, her kisses sloppy. She laid her head on his shoulder, panting into his neck. Her fingers dug into his ribs and the pain helped him hold off just another second, and that’s all she needed as she indeed screamed her release but had enough awareness to muffle her cries against his shoulder.

Her channel pulsed around him and he could hold back no more. His hot seed spurted out of him in wave after wave of ecstasy. “Sansa! Fuck, Sansa!” he growled through gritted teeth, as he thrust himself up into her a few more times before his limbs turned into warm jelly. She must have felt the same way as she collapsed her weight against him.

They stayed like that several minutes, still coupled, as their panting slowed. He had his arms wrapped around her, afraid her limp body would fall if he let go.

When she finally leaned back, he opened his eyes and took in the messy, beautiful sight. Hairs were clinging to her face, damp with sweat. Her normally pursed lips were swollen and parted. Her eyes were drowsy, her cheeks flushed. She did not meet his eyes, instead staring at some point on his chest.

Pulling her cloak around her more securely she pushed herself off of him and stood on shaky legs. He held his arm out and she accepted it for only a moment until she was steady on the ground. She turned away from him and pulled on her smallclothes and breeches.

_Something’s not right. She regrets it._

A pang of hurt ripped through his chest. The song she sang him, then _this_ … he thought it meant something to her as it certainly meant something to him.

He pulled his breeches up, laced them, and then rose. She was still turned away from him but had not moved toward the door. He was clueless as to what to do. With whores and wenches he left after the _transaction_ was complete. There were no pleasantries exchanged, no hugs or kisses. But he couldn’t leave now, they were in _his_ room.

_Should I offer her a drink? Or ask if she is well? Perhaps I was too big for her and she is sore._

_Or perhaps she realizes she just made a mistake and is trying to figure out how to tell you to forget this ever happened._

Finally she turned, walked right up to him and pulled his head down for a kiss. She looked into his eyes for a brief moment and said, “Thank you,” before turning and walking out of the room.

_Thank_ me? He scratched his forehead, even more confused than he’d been a moment ago.

_Thank me for what? For fucking her? Like I was doing her a favor?_

_Thank me for caring about her?_

So inexperienced was he in this type of act, with this type of woman, that he wondered if it was customary to _thank_ the other party. Were highborn girls were raised to think their husband’s pleasure was something _they_ should be grateful for? He wouldn’t doubt this to be true; he knew mothers and Septas taught their daughters that their wifely _duty_ was to lay down, spread their legs, and completely submit to whatever acts their husband wanted to commit.

_But she didn’t just lay there… she was the one ‘committing the act’ on me. If she didn’t listen to those lessons, why would she listen to any lessons about ‘thanking’ a man for his consent?_

Sandor plopped onto his too-small bed and continued pondering the events of the evening. If it weren’t for the vigorous coupling and copious amounts of wine, he’d likely have laid awake all night; but as it was, he fell asleep promptly and didn’t wake until rays of light shone through his window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if it needs to be said, the song Sansa sings to Sandor is "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor, edited to fit my fic. Are the parts with the songs cheesy? It wasn't my intent to include them originally until I heard a song one day that fit so perfectly with Sandor and Sansa that I wanted to weave it into the story. Next thing I know every time I listen a song I'm thinking 'does this fit in my fic?'? It became something of an obsession. 
> 
> So... finally had some SanSan action. I know it wasn't the tender lovemaking some of you probably hoped for, but given Sansa's past I just didn't see their first time being any other way but with Sansa in control, and for both of them to be overtaken by their lust.


	49. Competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone from Sansa's past arrives

**Sandor**

Sandor forced himself out of bed though every muscle screamed for more sleep. His head was throbbing, his stomach felt sour, but he knew the only thing worse than the embarrassment of his behavior in the dining hall would be spending the day in his room, announcing to the entire castle that the Hound had been bested by wine.

He was normally up and out at dawn, but by the angle of the sun – the blinding sun – he figured he was no more than thirty minutes off of his normal routine. After being on the road nearly a moon he hoped that would raise no suspicion.

He walked out of his door and immediately felt lost. He was the Queen’s sworn shield now, was he supposed to go to her chambers to escort her about her daily tasks? The idea of looking in her eyes after what happened last night was terrifying. Thankfully, he remembered she normally slept until after ten o’clock, only going to court at eleven. He decided to find some way to be useful for the next two hours and would return to her chambers then to escort her to court.

Sandor assumed the Castellan, Byrnard Ryswell, would be the man to speak to for assignment. As he entered the courtyard the noise of construction made his headache go from a dull throb to a splitting ache, but he pressed on. He spotted the tall man’s figure near the armory but was surprised to see he was not alone – the little bird was speaking with him.

_Fuck!_

There was no way to avoid her now.

_Best get this over with!_

He approached the pair, who were surrounded by several other men taking orders. Sandor stood a few feet back until the men were dismissed.

“Ah, Sandor, good morning.”

“Good morning, my lady. My apologies for not escorting you, I had assumed you’d keep your normal schedule.”

“No apology needed, I should have made you aware of my plans last night, it seems I’m not accustomed to having a sworn shield yet. And no, I’m afraid there is too much to do to waste any hours of daylight.”

He nodded, “Indeed”.

_Why is she acting so normal? She isn’t even blushing!_

He continued, “I had actually come to find Ser Ryswell for an assignment, but since you’re up and about I assume you’ll want my escort?”

“As pleasant as that would be, I think there are better uses for your talents. Ser Ryswell is meeting shortly with Ser Jaime, Brienne, and our Head Builder, Edron Croft, to determine the outstanding fortifications then divvy up the responsibilities. If you’d be so kind as to join them, it would be greatly appreciated.”

He nodded, “Anything else, my lady?”

“Please find me at my quarters at six o’clock to escort me to the evening meal.”

He bowed his departure as she turned and left. A few minutes ago the notion of following her around all day seemed unbearable, but now he felt even worse for having been cast aside. She all but said she had no need for him as a shield for the foreseeable future.

Sandor would have to find an opportunity to speak with her in private – to tell her that there was no need to shun him, they could forget about last night.

_But I don’t want to forget about it, and I don’t want her to, either._

Ridding his mind of her image, he told Ryswell to lead the way.

After two hours spent planning and sketching with Brienne and Jaime, the roles were assigned:

Sandor would determine and oversee the placement of various mounted weaponry atop the all the castle walls. This would include catapults, iron spikes, barrels of pitch, and large crossbows called ballistae, which would be necessary to take down the wight-giants.

Ryswell would oversee the reinforcement of the four gates and all interior structures, including the Glass Gardens and various halls and towers. Lady Sansa was adamant about not having to rebuild Winterfell from the ground up, should they be lucky enough to survive the battle.

Jaime would design and oversee the modifications to the lichyard where Sansa, Thoros, Theon, and two guards would be stationed once the fighting began. The walls around the yard would have iron spikes and barbed wire added to the tops. Wooden plankways would be built along the inner walls, almost as high as the walls themselves. There would be only one stairway leading up to the plankways – opposite the lichyard’s sole entry gate. The plan was to ensure there was only one way for the wights to get to Sansa – through the lichyard entrance and up the narrow stairs. The top of the stairs would be the chokepoint that Theon and Thoros would defend, while a guard on each side plankway would be ready in case any wights managed to get past the wire and spikes. The plankways themselves would have four-foot-tall side walls and railings so those on the plankways would have cover in case the White Walkers attacked them with spears or arrows.

Edron Croft assigned each man several carpenters, metal workers, and general laborers to execute his orders.

Brienne would oversee the armory, including the production of dragonglass weapons swords, daggers, standard arrows, and the larger, thicker arrows to be used in the ballistae. She would make sure the weapons and shields were well organized and ready to be distributed once the threat was near.

Throughout the day Sandor saw the little bird many times from his vantage point atop the battlements. She was always busy, always giving orders, making decisions. Around midday Sandor noticed a young man and woman enter through the South Gate with small retinue of guards. Sansa greeted both of them with hugs and it was clear she knew them both well. Late that afternoon Sandor was standing atop the battlements near the North Gate, surveying the progress that had been made that day. He heard the heavy footfalls he’d come to recognize as belonging to Tormund and turned to look upon the Wildling. The men stood in silence for a few moments, staring out to the lands north of Winterfell. It was quite a beautiful view.

Tormund sighed, “Hard to believe we’ll soon be standing here looking out at 100,000 dead soldiers.”

Sandor shrugged, “The Wall may hold.”

“Aye, but for how long? You heard Jon Snow, even if the Red Witch was wrong – even if the Wall does hold, an army that large can simply surge the gate until it gives, then there will be nothing stopping them. Not enough pitch or dragonglass in the world to kill a steady stream of 100,000 wights pouring through the gate.”

Sandor frowned, “Thanks, I was just starting to feel hopeful.”

“Hah! Have no fear brother, there’s no better way to die than with an axe in your hand – or a sword, in your case. That is, except maybe with your cock in some pretty young cunt.”

Tormund slapped Sandor hard on the back. Sandor wanted to scowl but he was starting to warm to the Wildling. The man spoke his mind, even if his mind was batshit crazy.

“Speaking of pretty young… ladies… Do you know you’re standing in the exact place where the Red Wolf stood when they named her Queen in the North?”

Sandor was surprised. He had imagined some stuffy ceremony in the Great Hall, a bunch of crusty old Northern lords and ladies taking a vote. “Aye?”

“Aye. It was right after the battle. She stood here looking out at the fields, one arrow sticking out of her arm, another sticking out of her shoulder, covered in Bolton blood. Even as someone who doesn’t kneel, I could appreciate the moment. No one spoke, no one looked around, it was like all at once everyone just dropped to their knees. Then they stood up, raised their fists in the air and did their chant. Even the Free Folk honored her in their own way, they wouldn’t call her ‘Queen’, but they howled for her – howled for the wolf!” Tormund grinned as if reliving the moment before he continued, “I know you Southerners have strange traditions – picking your leaders because of the blood in their veins and the name they’re born with, but I tell you brother – that day, they didn’t care that she was a Stark… they didn’t care about the blood in the veins, only the blood she spilled for her people.”

A rare smile forced its way onto Sandor’s burnt mouth. He wished he had been there for that moment, to see the meek little bird become the Queen in the North. He knew she didn’t want the title – she’d confided in him as much – but even if she weren’t proud of herself, he was proud for her.

_I hope Joffrey saw it from whatever Hell he’s inhabiting._

The sun was beginning to set, and Sandor wanted to wash the sweat and sawdust off before escorting his lady to the dining hall. He parted ways with Tormund and walked back to the family quarters, unable to wipe the smile from his face.

\-------------------------------------------------------

He had ten minutes to spare but stood in the hallway outside Sansa’s room. He didn’t hear any noise from inside but assumed she was combing or braiding her hair or tying her laces or doing whatever ladies do when they get ready for supper. He still wondered why she didn’t have handmaidens to help her dress, but he respected her more for her independence.

He was scraping dirt from beneath his fingernails when a door opened down the hall on the opposite side as Sansa’s. He turned and saw Sansa herself emerge, using the key that dangled around her neck to lock the door behind her. As she turned, she saw Sandor and stopped dead in her tracks. Recovering, she proceeded to her room and told Sandor she just needed a moment to retrieve her cloak. He noticed her face was flushed.

He didn’t know whose room it was, but he knew whose it _wasn’t_ : it wasn’t Brienne or Theon’s – they occupied the rooms on either side of Sansa’s. The only other people who slept in the Family Quarters were Jaime and now Tyrion.

Sandor’s blood rose as he imagined Sansa leaving Jaime after an afternoon of passion.

_After she just fucked me last night._

Sandor was ready to pounce on her with his accusation until he realized that he’d just seen Jaime working in the lichyard when Sandor left the northern battlements, so he couldn’t have been in that room with Sansa.

_And if someone was in the room, why would she lock the door from the outside, anyway?_

Sandor was sure this must mean the room was empty. Perhaps she used it for storage? But why did she have that _look_ exiting a storage room? Sandor had no more time to think as the little bird emerged from her room and immediately headed for the dining hall.

“I thought I should fill you in on my schedule, since I clearly have been lax in doing so thus far.”

“Makes sense.”

“Meet me here at eight o’clock each morning, unless I tell you otherwise the night before. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Only matters that it’s agreeable to you.”

“You can escort me to break our fast, but then we’ll part ways to see to our respective tasks, I’m sure.”

He nodded.

“I must dine in the large hall tonight as I’ve received guests today, but my intent is to sup most nights in my solar. I’d like to be able to discuss our progress, plans, and concerns in a more private setting. You, Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion, Poole, Ryswell… potentially others depending on the issues of the day. I’ve told the kitchens to have our meals brought to my private solar each evening at six o’clock.”

“Aye, do you need me to tell the others to report there at that time?”

“Please, though Ryswell and Brienne already know.”

“Will you be needing me then, throughout the day? I mean between the morning meal and our evening meal?”

“If I do, I’ll send for you. Please assume you’re free to your other duties unless you hear otherwise.”

“As you say, my lady.”

\------------------------------------------------------

Sandor sat with Brienne, Jaime, Podrick, and Theon for the meal. Tyrion, Thoros, and Beric seemed to have found themselves _fairer_ company for the evening. Sandor pointed at their table with his fork and directed his question at Jaime, “Not going to join your brother in the gaiety?”

“You mean sit through an evening of the _Tyrion Show_? I’m afraid I’ve seen it too many times, in fact I have every line memorized. Right now he’s probably educating the young ladies on dwarf anatomy, how certain parts tend to be disproportionately _larger_ than one might expect.”

Sandor huffed, “What about you, boy? Tyrion told me how _popular_ you were with the _ladies_ of King’s Landing… said the whores offered to pay _you_ , if my memory serves.”

Jaime and Brienne chuckled as Podrick blushed furiously and looked down at his plate.

Sandor should have been prepared for it, but he wasn’t, “And what about you? Assuming there’s nothing _disproportionate_ about you I should think you’d be rather popular. I’ll give you five gold dragons if you’ll just go sit next to my brother – I want to see the look on his face as he _sizes up_ his competition!”

_Because there is only one lady in this whole bloody realm I want to sit next to._

“My cock could be made out of gold like that hand of yours, still ain’t gonna get anyone past this face.”

Jaime chuckled but Brienne looked at Sandor sympathetically, “They’re really not _that_ bad.”

Sandor laughed, he knew she meant well but he couldn’t let her off the hook, “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me!” The big woman blushed furiously, making Jaime laugh even harder. Even Podrick dared a chuckle.

Sandor’s attention finally turned to the little bird who was sitting at her high table with the young couple Sandor saw enter earlier that day. She was talking and laughing with them as if they were old friends.

He nodded in their direction, “Who are the honored guests this evening, that couple?”

Jaime answered, “They’re not a couple, the young lady is Sansa’s childhood friend Beth Cassel. She grew up with Sansa in Winterfell, her father was the Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel. The young man is Beth’s cousin, Derik Cassel. He spent much of his youth here as well, from what I gather.”

Brienne continued, “After the Battle for the North, Sansa legitimized him, he’d been a bastard. She gave him Moat Cailin and named him lord. They’re two of the few people Sansa trusts, present company notwithstanding.”

“So why are they here? Shouldn’t he be guarding the Moat?” Sandor asked, not liking the familiar way this _Derik_ was acting toward Sansa.

Brienne answered, “Beth is going to help oversee the preparations for those who will head to Bear Island. Derik, I suppose, is just here to lend his support however he can. I’m sure the moat is still well guarded in his absence.”

Jaime added, “The young man is quite good with a sword I must admit. He fought alongside us during the battle. And having been practically raised by Ser Rodrik, he knows as much about castle defenses as any of us.”

Brienne grinned mischievously, an expression she rarely wore, “Though I suspect he has _other_ reasons for wanting to be here.”

Jaime chided her, “Truly Brienne, gossip is not becoming of you.”

“It is not _gossip_! He’s made his wishes quite well known!”

“What wishes?” Sandor tried not to sound desperate, but he was fairly certain what Brienne was hinting.

She confirmed his fears, “After Sansa named him Lord of the Moat, he immediately asked for her hand. It really was rather romantic, he got down on one knee, told her how he has wanted nothing more out of life than to someday be worthy of her, and now that _someday_ is here he doesn’t want to wait another minute, doesn’t want to give any other Lord the chance to woo the most coveted woman in all the Seven Kingdoms…”

Jaime rolled his eyes.

“What? It _was_ sweet, even you can admit that,” Brienne snorted.

“The man was legitimized all of two minutes before proposing to her. He seems decent enough but if that’s not arrogance…”

Brienne laughed, “Oh, _you’re_ calling someone _else_ arrogant?”

The pair continued exchanging ripostes, but Sandor heard none of it. He was blind to everything other than the little bird smiling at the handsome, brave, romantic, intelligent bastard-turned- _fucking_ -lord.

…

An hour later Jaime, Brienne, and Podrick said their goodnights. Theon was about to follow but Sandor spoke to him under his breath, “Don’t fucking move, boy.”

Theon rolled his eyes but sat back down, “Going to interrogate me again?”

Sandor ignored him, “What do you know of this _Lord_ Cassel?”

Theon sighed, “I knew him growing up, he’s decent, a bit arrogant as Jaime said, but only because he was a bastard. I suppose he’s no more arrogant than any other Lord or Ser I’ve ever met.”

“What does Sansa think of him?”

“She’s fond of him.” An ugly, knowing smirk formed on Theon’s mouth, “Used to be sweet on him when she was a girl. She and Beth had it all planned out: Beth would marry Robb, Sansa would marry Derik, and they’d all live together in Winterfell and have babes that would grow up together.”

_Fucking cunt, he’s saying that just to rile me up._

“Of course, that was when they were too young and naïve to realize Beth wouldn’t be good enough for the heir of Winterfell, and a bastard certainly would never be suitable for Sansa.”

“Forget about _then_ , what does she think of him _now_?”

Theon shrugged, “Seems fond of him, but she declined his proposal, that should tell you something.”

“Aye, that she wasn’t ready to be betrothed a couple months after ridding herself of Ramsay-fucking-Bolton.”

Theon’s amusement turned to pity, “If it makes you feel any better, she still isn’t ready. Might never be, as she’s made clear to the Northern bannerman time and time again, not that they care to listen.”

_You might think differently if you saw her riding my cock last night._

Sandor waved Theon away when he remembered he had another question and summoned him back, “Ay, what’s in the room across from yours?”

Theon’s face went still and he swallowed, “Why do you ask?”

“Saw Sansa come out of it today, locking it from the outside. Figured she might be storing valuables in there,” he lied, “can’t hurt to know who should and shouldn’t be seen coming or going.”

Theon answered dryly, “ _No one_ should be coming or going, that’s all you need to know.”

He turned and left, leaving Sandor to his own confusion.

Little by little the hall emptied, and Sandor found himself, for the second time in as many days, regretting his choice to be Sansa’s shield. He’d have to sit here watching her smile and giggle with her old _friend_ until the early hours of the morn. But soon enough she called Sandor over. He walked up onto the raised platform and stood behind his lady.

“Derik, Beth, this is my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor bowed his head. “Sandor, this is Derik Cassel and his cousin Beth Cassel. They’re some of the only people I’ve known longer than you, so if you want to reminisce about when I was a _silly_ little girl, they’ll make good company.” Sansa looked uncharacteristically happy, and Sandor hoped it was because of the wine and not the young man in her company.

Derik rose and shook Sandor’s hand, “Wow, strong grip you’ve got there, not that I should be surprised. I’m glad to see Sansa has such a capable protector.” Sandor only nodded.

“Well, I’m exhausted! I know you two can find your way to the Guest Hall. Sandor, shall we retire?”

_Together?_

“As you wish, my lady.”

He offered his arm and escorted her out of the hall after she gave each of her friends a quick kiss on the cheek.

As they walked back to her chambers Sandor noticed her smile never faded, “You’re in good spirits tonight, my lady.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Aside from Jon and Theon, Beth and Derik are the closest I have to family. When they’re around I can almost forget everything that’s happened since I left for King’s Landing.”

“Mmm.”

They walked the rest of the way to her door in silence, but when they got there, she shocked Sandor by giving him his own kiss on the cheek. He noticed her lips lingered there just a second longer than they had on Derik’s. She pulled back and blushed, “Good night, Sandor.”

She didn’t wait for his response as she entered her chambers and closed the door behind her.

“Good night, little bird,” he whispered to her door.


	50. The Moat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon remembers the day they took Moat Cailin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short flashback chapter.

**Theon**

**Six months ago**

It doesn’t take them long to surrender. Twenty soldiers sworn to either Bolton or Frey emerge from the three remaining towers of Moat Cailin. They know Sansa can easily wait them out, and they make the wise choice to face captivity rather than starvation.

Theon recognizes their faces. They are the men who accompanied him and Ramsay to take the Moat from the Ironborn what feels like an eternity ago. Ramsay offered the Ironborn mercy if they would surrender. Already hungry from months of Stark siege, they surrendered. But it was not mercy they received. Ramsay and his men – the men now kneeling before Sansa – flayed alive every Ironborn while Theon watched, using all his will power not to vomit.

Sansa, Jaime, Brienne, Derik, Theon, Lady Cerwyn, Lord Manderly, Lord Reed, and three hundred soldiers arrived at the Moat only two days ago, yet the men are already kneeling.

Sansa addresses them, face impassive as it has been since Ramsay killed… well, Theon won’t think of that today.

“You’ve made the right decision. Starvation is not a pleasant way to die. House Bolton has been eradicated and Walder Frey will waste no resource to come to your aid. You are alone, friendless.”

The apparent leader of the Bolton men speaks, “My lady, we submit ourselves willingly to your judgment, we know the daughter of Lord Ned Stark to be honorable and merciful.”

“As merciful as you were when you flayed alive two dozen Greyjoy men?”

The man shifts uncomfortably, “We were under orders, my lady. Ramsay was not one to be disobeyed, as I fear you already know.”

Sansa nods. “Indeed he was not. You will have my mercy, but I fear honor is wasted on you. You will be granted the same swift death as my lady mother at the hands of your recently deceased lord, Roose Bolton.”

The men stir but are powerless to escape their restraints. One by one Theon watches as Sansa takes her dagger – the one Ramsay had used to torture her for months – and slices each man’s neck from ear to ear.

Jaime, Brienne and many of the Stark soldiers glance at each other, but none dares to question their Queen’s judgment.

Sansa wipes the dagger on the last man’s tattered cloak before sheathing it. She walks directly to Theon, “Theon, Moat Cailin has been neglected for too long. I will see it restored to be the great stronghold it once was – the chokepoint of the North. Any southern army trying to march on the North will have to make it through the endless torrent of arrows the archers of Moat Cailin’s towers will unleash. I would see you, Theon, as the Lord of the Moat, and trust you to restore it to its former greatness. Do you accept?”

Theon is stunned. He knows Sansa has forgiven his past crimes against Winterfell – the actions which led to her younger brothers fleeing their home, likely to their deaths – but to trust him with this responsibility…?

“Sansa, you honor me. I wish not to insult you, but my place is at your side, protecting you from any who would harm you. Surely there is someone more worthy of this Lordship.”

Sansa nods, “I thought you might say that, but wanted to offer you the opportunity, nonetheless. Derik Snow, I mean no offense by making you my second choice, but if you would accept the responsibility of ruling and restoring Moat Cailin, it would please me very much.”

Now it is Derik who is stunned. “My lady, you honor me, but I am only a bastard, I cannot hold a castle…”

“You are a bastard no more. Before all these witnesses I legitimize you, Lord Derik Cassel. Do you accept the responsibility for Moat Cailin, my lord?”

Derik nods slowly, still shocked, but eventually finds appropriate words, “My thanks, your grace. I will see your will done; I will restore Moat Cailin to its former greatness. The residents of the Moat, myself included, will give nothing short of our lives to defend the lands and Houses to our north.”

“Of that I have no doubt, Lord Casse,” Sansa grasps the hand of her childhood friend, offering him the closest thing to a smile that ever graces her face, anymore.

Seemingly emboldened by her gesture, Derik kneels. Confusion is written on Sansa’s face as he speaks, “My queen, since we were children, I have cared deeply for you. I knew you would someday be a great lady, and only the most honorable Lord would be worthy of your hand. At risk of appearing mercenary, I wish to express to you my desire to be that man, to spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of your name and your affection. I know many Lords will seek your hand in the days to come; let me be the first to express my wish. I promise, my dearest Sansa, you would know no truer friend and confidante. I would honor you always, if given the chance.” He places a kiss on her hand.

Sansa’s face should be filled with joy, but it is not. She looks pained, embarrassed, though she responds courteously, “My friend, you honor me. Know that you have my respect and my trust, and a worthy match you would indeed be… but I have no intention of marrying again.” Now she turns, addressing those around her, “Let it be known to all who call me Queen – I have no intention of marrying. If I ever do marry it will be a man of my choosing, I will not be coerced. If you wish to continue to call me Queen, do so knowing that there may never be a King by my side. If this changes your endorsement of me, speak now.”

Lady Cerwyn, Lord Manderly, and Lord Reed look at each other before Lord Manderly spoke for all of them, “We support the Queen in the North, Sansa Stark. You are our one true Queen; we need no other but the Stark in Winterfell.”


	51. Letter from a Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives a raven from an unexpected sender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another relatively short chapter

**Sandor**

The weeks that followed found Winterfell buzzing with even more activity than it had been when Sandor first arrived there. All laborers who’d been working on repairs to the inside of the castle were reassigned to repair or fortify the castle’s defenses, particularly the gates, external walls, and towers. Day and night the armory put out armor and shields along with dragonglass arrows, daggers, and swords, including oversized bolts that would be loaded into the ballistae. The dragonglass was now being shipped to White Harbor and brought directly to Winterfell rather than going further north to the Wall.

Sansa insisted that wooden boards be fashioned to cover every inch of the Glass Gardens, to be installed once the dead army was nearby. Should the living prevail, they’d need to eat. Beth Cassel continued to help oversee the preparations related to food and other non-military supplies, much of which was being transported to Bear Island which would be the refuge for anyone not fighting in the battle.

Much to Sandor’s annoyance the young Derik Cassel seemed to take a liking to him, and often volunteered to help oversee the installation of various weaponry to the castle walls and battlements. Sandor didn’t care for his company but preferred to know he was up here with him than wondering if he was down on the ground, finding ways to endear himself with the little bird.

**Sansa**

As had become a regular occurrence, Sansa hosted her advisors in her solar each evening. Tyrion, Jaime, Sandor, Brienne, Daryl Poole, and Byrnard Ryswell were all present. As they dined together, it was an opportunity for each to update their queen, raise any concerns, and even exchange ideas with one another as they all hastily prepared for the battle to come. As always, Daryl and Byrnard spoke first, then departed – they each had wives and children and it was obvious they wanted to spend as much time with their families as possible. Sandor, Jaime, Tyrion, and Brienne always lingered a bit in Sansa’s solar, enjoying what little time the group of unlikely friends spent together.

On this particular evening, the maester entered just as Daryl and Byrnard were exiting. He nervously handed Sansa a scroll that had just arrived by raven, then retreated with speed unexpected for his age.

Sansa noticed the seal bore the emblem of the Hand of the King, Tywin Lannister. She glanced at Tyrion while breaking the seal then quickly turned her eyes to the parchment. She read in silence before snorting in disbelief. She then started at the beginning, this time reading aloud:

> _Lady Sansa,_
> 
> _Please forgive the belated nature of my correspondence: as you well know, ruling a kingdom is a time-consuming task, leaving one with few opportunities to write personal missives._
> 
> _I write to express my Congratulations on your appointment as Queen of the Northern Kingdom. The significance of Northerners selecting a Lady as their ruler is not lost on me._
> 
> _I must also admit my pleasure at seeing the Boltons ousted and a Stark reinstalled in Winterfell. I trust you will bring stability back to the region, as your ancestors have done for thousands of years._
> 
> _You’ll likely doubt the sincerity of the words above, knowing the Boltons had sworn fealty to House Lannister, but as I don’t need to tell you, alliances forged in wartime are never as ironclad as those forged during peace. This is an opportune moment to address the second reason for this letter:_
> 
> _It is well past time to put the preceding war to rest, officially. I hope you know that I bear you no ill will for the treasonous actions of your now-deceased family, including the unfounded rumors spread by your late lord father, which started the Five Kings War. Likewise, I hope you do not hold the crown responsible for all the unpleasantries that have fallen upon your people since the outset of said war._
> 
> _To that end, it only makes sense that we should look to usher in a new era a harmony by establishing a mutual peace agreement. War is a messy and expensive thing, and if you’ve surrounded yourself with sage advisors, they’ll undoubtedly tell you something that I’ve repeatedly told my own children and grandchildren: you can never have too many allies, or too few enemies. Unfortunately, it appears that we may soon find ourselves with a common enemy – one who, by all accounts, is unworthy of trust and incapable of compromise._
> 
> _Understanding you may be reticent to return to King’s Landing, let me make the first gesture of good faith and offer to travel to Winterfell – or the location of your choosing – to begin our talks in earnest. I am confident that Ned Stark’s daughter will honor the traditional terms of parlay._
> 
> _Please consider my proposal and let me know if there is anything more that I can do to demonstrate the seriousness of my intent._
> 
> _I look forward to your reply._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Tywin Lannister_
> 
> _Lord of House Lannister_
> 
> _Warden of the West_
> 
> _Hand to the King of Westeros, Tommen Baratheon_

After reading the letter, Sansa shook her head, “Well, I’ll say one thing for him, he’s got big balls.”

Jaime jested, “Ah yes, we Lannisters are known for our big balls.”

Tyrion couldn’t resist, “and big _other_ parts, as well.”

“Mouths?” Sandor scowled.

Sansa snickered, “As you suspected, Tyrion, he heard of Daenerys’ visit to Winterfell and is open to discussing an alliance.”

Now Jaime laughed, “ _Open_ to an alliance? I’m familiar with my father’s writing style, my lady. _This,”_ Jaime waved the scroll in the air like a tiny flag, “is practically a love letter. The man is scared. You’d have quite the upper hand should you wish to negotiate an alliance, in truth.”

“It’s a bit late for that, though it would be fun to invite him to make haste to Winterfell. With any luck he’ll arrive at the same time as the dead and will perish alongside us.” Thinking she had insulted them, Sansa apologized to Tyrion and Jaime, “Pardon my vengeful fantasies, I often forget he is your father.”

“No apology needed, we forget it ourselves,” Tyrion laughed, exchanging a look with his brother.

The group filed out. Once Sansa was alone, she was about to burn the letter when she stopped herself. _How many people – how many_ women _can say they’ve scared Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion?_ She re-rolled the parchment and placed it carefully in a drawer.


	52. Bad News Travels Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterfell receives bad news... and more bad news...

**Sansa**

After all the plans had been set in motion, Sansa found herself with enough time to resume holding court – though she only held it two days a week instead of four. Even that felt like too much – it was maddening to listen to trivial complaints from the smallfolk when everyone knew the severity of the threat that would soon by at their gates.

Yet Sansa couldn’t fault them, she herself had doubts about whether the Wall would fall. Perhaps Melisandre’s vision was the Lord of Light’s way to convince everyone to take the threat seriously, to be prepared. _And we’re as prepared as we are ever going to be._

But those moments of hope were few and fleeting. Sansa felt as if her very existence doomed her people. Her father’s murder, her betrothal/captivity to Joffrey, the loss of her mother and brother, her other siblings missing and likely dead, her time in the Vale, Harry’s death, her abuse at Ramsay’s hand, the death of…

It felt like she was destined for tragedy, and what was once her personal burden would now be an entire kingdom’s. She often wondered if the best thing she could do for her people would be to throw herself into the sea or take a dagger to her throat. It would break the curse that followed her, and her people would never know the suffering they so closely avoided.

Yet some part of her wondered if the curse had already been lifted. She won back her home, even if it didn’t feel like home without her family; then Sandor returned to her from the dead; then Tyrion returned… she stood up to the Dragon Queen and wasn’t burned alive. The war with the South seemed to be over, as long as Tywin Lannister had a firm grip on the Crownlands.

So, on this particular day – about a moon since they arrived back at Winterfell from Castle Black – Sansa allowed her hope to bloom. She listened to the smallfolk’s complaints with more attention and responded with more than a minimal effort. She made her decisions based on the assumption that they would all be alive to see the next year. So when the maester handed her an unsealed scroll she forgot to feel her usual dread. She unrolled it with only curiosity, but her stomach dropped as she immediately recognized the uncharacteristically sloppy letters of her brother Jon.

She stopped herself from reading past her name. She knew a rushed letter could only mean terrible news. Her hand started shaking and she turned to Theon who stood behind her this day. She did not need to speak, he nodded his understanding and immediately headed out to summon the others. Sansa dismissed court with as much calmness as she could muster, then retreated to her nearby solar. She guzzled a goblet of wine, then another. Only after she began to feel the effects of the sour vintage did she allow herself to read the letter. It took all her might to keep the wine down.

_Breathe. Breathe._

She forced herself to slow her breathing. It would not do to have her officers and advisors come in and see her in a puddle of fear.

_Breathe._

_Fuck me!_

_Breathe._

_We’re all going to die!_

_Breathe._

[Smack!]

Sansa slapped herself on the cheek, hard. She closed her eyes and swallowed her emotions. She went about the familiar ritual: _Push down all worry, all fear, all anger. Push it down into your belly. Let it live there for now, it’s no use to you now. You can let it out later, when you’re alone._ She felt her heartbeat slow, her facial muscles relax. She repeated the mantra she’d mastered two days after…

_Don’t think about that. Say the words, Sansa._

**_Nothing can hurt you anymore. There is no more pain. There is no one left to lose._ **

_…but isn’t there? You weren’t supposed to let anyone get close, and yet you have. Sandor, Brienne, Jaime, Theon, Tyrion… you let them get too close._

_…it doesn’t matter… they don’t matter, they’re just people, sinners…_

**_Nothing can hurt you anymore. Death is all that is left, and there is nothing to fear in death. Death will bring you only peace._ **

…

By the time the others arrived in her solar, Sansa was beginning to write letters, and already knew the orders and assignments that must be made.

\-----------------------------------------------------

**Brienne**

Brienne was at the armory when Theon approached, looking even more wary than usual.

“Find Poole and Ryswell and report to Lady Sansa’s solar in the Great Hall. I’ll find Sandor, Jaime, Tormund, and Tyrion.”

Brienne nodded, but knew something was amiss. Sansa never summoned them when they were busy. Unlike other Lords and Ladies, she would find them herself, and speak her business wherever they were, as if their time was more valuable than hers.

Brienne found Poole and Ryswell easily enough and upon sharing the summons it was clear that they were just as anxious as she, though none voiced any fears as they walked swiftly to Lady Sansa’s solar next to the Great Hall.

They arrived to find Sansa alone, sitting at her desk and writing on a parchment.

Sansa lifted her head only a moment as she continued writing, “Thank you for coming so quickly. The others should be here soon, we will start when they arrive, please sit, and help yourselves to wine or water if you wish.” Brienne and the others nodded. Only Poole poured himself a goblet of wine.

A few minutes later Jaime, Sandor, Theon, Tormund, and Tyrion arrived. Sansa greeted them similarly. Tyrion poured himself wine.

“I’ve just received a raven from Castle Black, from my brother Jon. The Wall has fallen at Eastwatch. Please read for yourselves.” Sansa’s voice was void of any emotion while everyone else in the room looked equal parts shocked, afraid, and disbelieving. However, as trained warriors, they all regained their composure as they gathered around Brienne who held the scroll out for all to read.

> _Sansa,_
> 
> _Wall felled at Eastwatch by Viserion, who is now part of NK’s army. Dead on the march._
> 
> _Ravens sent to Daenerys, Flint, and Last Hearth. Please send others._
> 
> _Expect NW in three sennights or less. We will ride hard._
> 
> _Expect dead in moon or longer._
> 
> _Lady M says visions clear - you are key._
> 
> _Jon_

Mumbles and murmurs filled the small room. Though Sansa remained cool and quiet.

“A fucking dead dragon? We’re fucked! If it could fell the wall it’ll destroy Winterfell in minutes,” Sandor was practically shouting.

Tyrion nodded, “We need to amend our plan, my lady, regardless of Lady Melisandre’s words, we cannot possibly fight off 100,000 soldiers, two or more giants, and a dragon… we must retreat south, take my father up on his offer…”

“If you wish to flee to Casterly Rock, my lord, I will not stop you, or think any less of you for it. Anyone who wishes to go with you and pledge themselves to House Lannister is free to do so.”

“But not you?! My lady, this is madness!”

“Then perhaps I am mad, Lord Tyrion, but I will not abandon Winterfell to the dead, I don’t care if I have to stay here alone.” The coldness in her eyes was frightening. Brienne had seen it many times, and she knew it meant Sansa was immovable.

Brienne stepped forward, “You’ll never be alone, my Queen.” Brienne rarely used that title, but she felt it was appropriate now.

Jaime rose from his chair, “I stand with you as well, until the end.”

Sansa nodded at them both, “I appreciate your loyalty but do not demand it. If anyone in this room, or anyone else in the North, wishes to retreat South or elsewhere they will not be stopped.”

No one spoke until finally Tyrion offered a compromise, “My lady, at least send a raven to my father, tell him the Wall has fallen. The rest of the realm has a right to know, it is a threat to them as well as us.”

Sansa nodded, “You are right. I will send a letter to your father, my cousin, and to the Citadel. I will warn them of the threat, but I will not do so until the dead are nearly upon us. I will not give Cersei the opportunity to prepare her armies to sack Winterfell immediately after we’ve dealt with the dead – assuming we are victorious.”

Tyrion was about to argue but Sansa silenced him with a glare, “If you disagree, Lord Tyrion, keep it to yourself. I’ve heard you, and I’ve given you my answer.”

Brienne couldn’t help but exchange a slight smile with Sandor.

Sansa addressed her large protector, “Clegane, I assume the weapons we have designed for the giants would be effective against a dragon?”

He nodded, “Aye, though I imagine a dragon is a trickier target. We should double the number of bolts for the ballistae,” he directed his words at Brienne, who nodded.

“Good, then nothing in our plan has changed. You are all to continue the preparations. We have our timeframe: we must be ready within a moon.” Everyone nodded.

“Theon, when we are done here please summon Beth Cassel, Lady Mormont, and Steward Sedgwell. We will send the children and non-fighters to Deepwood Motte within the sennight. Also, I’d like you and Podrick to take a small group of guards to meet the Night’s Watch along their journey. They left in haste and may not have been fully prepared. Bring a dozen spare garrons, a wagon of provisions, and an empty wagon in case there are any ill or injured. Leave within two days, take one of the supply wagons already prepared for Deepwood. Whatever horses and supplies are not needed by the Watch can be routed directly to Deepwood.”

Sansa pressed her hands together – a signal Brienne knew to mean she was considering her next words carefully, “Ser Jaime, I have given this much thought, and would like to offer you the position of Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms.”

Brienne smiled at her friend, who was uncharacteristically speechless.

“My lady, I…”

“Do you accept?”

“I… I accept, but…”

“It is not a provisional offer, either accept or don’t.”

He nodded solemnly, “Then I accept.”

“Good. Enlist any men you wish as commanders, Ser Poole may have some recommendations.”

Jaime nodded, finally remembering his courtesy, “Thank you, your grace. You honor me.” He still looked speechless, and Brienne couldn’t help but give him a friendly jab in the ribs.

Sansa nodded then turned to Tyrion, “Lord Tyrion, I also ask that you accept the position of Hand.”

If Jaime was stunned, Tyrion was absolutely flabbergasted. He looked around the room at the others, as if expecting them to burst out laughing at their queen’s jape.

“But… but… but you and I disagree on everything.”

“That is an exaggeration, my lord, though only a fool would surround herself with people who always share her opinions or are afraid to voice any dissent.”

“But… I’ve only been back a few moons; you would trust me?”

Sansa sighed in exasperation, “I’d not ask you if I didn’t trust you, my lord. Now I’ve much to do, so if you don’t have an answer please think on it and let me know…”

“My answer is yes, I accept,” Tyrion couldn’t hold in his laughter.

“What is so amusing, my lord?”

He spoke through giggles, “I’m sorry, your grace, it’s just… I’m picturing Cersei’s face when she hears that her brothers are Master-at-Arms and Hand to the Queen in the North.”

Jaime and Brienne smiled in amusement, though Sansa had something more serious to say on the subject, “About that Lord Tyrion, Ser Jaime… It is quite possible that in the future we will find ourselves at odds with your sister, nephew, or father. If the day comes that you feel your family allegiance makes it impossible for you to serve or counsel me fairly, I only ask that you resign from your positions rather than tempt yourselves with betrayal... I need not remind you how treachery is handled in the North.”

_Execution without trial._ Brienne silently prayed that would never be Jaime’s fate, but she knew his bond with his sister was strong. She only hoped time and distance had weakened it.

The two men nodded soberly, and Sansa dismissed everyone.

\-------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

After meeting with Beth, Sedgwell, and Lady Mormont, she resumed her letter-writing. She sent ravens to all her vassal houses, including the Dreadfort and Houses Karstark, Cerwyn, Tallhart, Hornwood, Reed, and Manderly.

The northernmost Houses – Flint, Umber, Tallhart, Cerwyn, and Karstark – should immediately send their armies to Winterfell and their women and children to Deepwood Motte. The same instructions were sent to Tormund’s people at the Dreadfort. Jon’s letter indicated he’d sent ravens to Last Hearth and Flint, but Sansa would not take any chances. All the vassals south of Winterfell she instructed to prepare for siege or retreat, should Winterfell fall. Those letters she wrote but did not yet send for fear that word would quickly spread south to the Crown.

Sansa decided to move her work to her personal solar, knowing she’d be writing long into the night, to be interrupted only once her various officers joined her for the evening meal.

She’d barely been writing a minute when a page knocked on her door to deliver a scroll just arrived by raven. She didn’t even want to read it, knowing it would only create more work for her, but when she saw the wax seal bore the symbol of the Hand of the King – Tywin Lannister – her mind began to race.

_Has he somehow already heard about the Wall?_ But no, that wasn’t possible. Perhaps it is another plea for alliance talks, which she would have no trouble ignoring for the moment.

When she uncurled the scroll her stomach dropped for the second time that day:

> _Lady Sansa,_
> 
> _It is with a heavy heart I write to inform you of recent developments affecting the entire realm._
> 
> _Two days ago the Great Sept of Baelor was destroyed in a tragic accident, along with numerous persons present at the time. Barrels of Wildfire – what remained after the Battle of the Blackwater – somehow ignited, causing a large explosion. Mercifully, it is believed that all inside died instantly and painlessly._
> 
> _Among the deceased are Queen Margaery Baratheon and her unborn child, Lord Mace Tyrell, Ser Loras Tyrell, the High Septon, much of the Faith Militant, several members of the City Watch, and various Lords and Ladies whose identities are still being determined._
> 
> _Our King Tommen Baratheon was not present but died shortly thereafter, having fallen from his balcony in the Red Keep after witnessing the devastation._
> 
> _This morning our Queen Regent, Cersei of House Lannister, first of her name, was officially crowned as Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms._
> 
> _You are hereby summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to Queen Cersei. Our Queen is reasonable and understands the difficulty of winter travel. She is generously allowing you two moons to appear before the court. Should you fail to respond to this summons in that timeframe you will be declared an enemy of the crown._
> 
> _I implore you, Lady Sansa, to consider my previous appeal: now more than ever, Westeros must be united._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Tywin Lannister_
> 
> _Lord of House Lannister_
> 
> _Warden of the West_
> 
> _Hand to the Queen of Westeros, Cersei Lannister_

After the initial shock wore off, Sansa heard someone laughing, and soon realized it was herself.

_I have gone mad!_

Her fits of laughter continued.

_The situation literally cannot get any worse. In less than two moons the dead will be upon us. If we somehow survive, the Lannister armies will be here to finish us off._

She laughed again, before a realization struck her: _That explosion was no coincidence. Cersei did it to rid herself of the Tyrells!_ Even worse, Tyrion had told Sansa that he had the remaining Wildfire from the Mad King’s reign secretly removed from King’s Landing and hidden near Casterly Rock… that meant Cersei had pyromancers make her a new batch.

Then, an even sadder realization struck: _Tommen didn’t fall from his balcony, he jumped to his death after witnessing the explosion – knowing his wife and unborn heir had just perished, maybe even guessing that his own mother was responsible._

After some deliberation, she sent a page to summon Ser Jaime. The knight arrived several minutes later, strutting in with a look of pride on his handsome face, “My Queen, summoned twice in one day? Before you honor me with another appointment, I must tell you I’m already rather busy with the first.”

The sadness must have been written on her face as his smile faded. His eyes dropped to the scroll still clutched in her hand. He swallowed, “I don’t suppose the raven brought glad tidings…”

She shook her head, “Jaime, I’m so sorry… I…”

He nodded, saving her from having to finish her sentence. He reached out his hand and after a few seconds of hesitation, she handed over the scroll. She watched his face redden and his eyes well up as he poured over the words.

When he was done reading, he pressed his lips together and nodded mechanically.

“I understand… it seems I must prepare our armies for another war as soon as our current _predicament_ is resolved…”

“Jaime…” she reached for his arm, but he backed up a step.

“It’s alright, my queen. You needn’t fret over me.”

“Jaime…”

He turned away from her but not before she could see the tears begin to roll down his cheeks. She ran to him and placed her left hand over his, not turning him to face her.

“It’s alright, your grace…”

“No, it’s not. You needn’t pretend with me.”

The dam burst and he dropped to his knees in utter despair. She kneeled in front of him and pulled his head onto her shoulder, stroking his hair. “I know, Jaime, I know…”

He sobbed into the fur of her stole, “You don’t know… you don’t!”

“Shh, I do know Jaime, believe me I do.”

“Damn her! Damn her scheming!”

“I know Jaime, I know.”

The part of Jaime Lannister that refused to admit out loud that Cersei’s children were his fell away, “Not him… not him…”

“He was a sweet boy, Jaime, he had a tender heart. He would have been a fine king.”

“He was too good for this world! She killed him, I know she didn’t mean to, but she killed him. She might as well have pushed him from the balcony.”

“I know Jaime, and she knows. She must be suffering, too.”

“Not enough, she’s not suffering enough. I should have protected him from her. He was the one… the only one I ever thought of as mine. And damn her, she did _that_ on purpose, too.”

“What Jaime? What did she do?”

“I was with Cersei in the birthing room for all three children… but she didn’t let me hold Joffrey or Myrcella, for fear the maids would find it odd, spread rumors about the children’s parentage. I gave Cersei what she wanted, I was distant from them, I treated them with even less affection than an uncle is entitled. Hells, Tyrion was allowed to be close to them, but not me…”

“…but she grew to resent me for it, even though I was only doing what she asked. When Tommen came, she put him in my arms without even asking. She wanted me to love him, she wanted me to think of him as mine, even if I’d never be able treat him as such. She was spiteful, hateful. She knew as soon as I held him, he’d be mine. No one ever told me that; no one ever told me that all it takes is holding your babe one time to fall in love.”

Sansa felt her own tears forming, and she swallowed them. Jaime was unwittingly describing her exact experience, and she couldn’t allow herself to remember those feelings. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on Jaime’s pain. She thought about Tommen – how gentle and sweet he was with his pet kittens, the ones he invited Sansa to play with after she learned of her brothers’ deaths.

She spoke the only words of comfort she could offer, inadequate as she knew they’d be, “You are right, he was too good for this world. He is in the Heavens now. He is with Myrcella, with Margaery and their babe, he will not suffer ever again. I know that isn’t enough Jaime, but it must be.”

Jaime’s sobs had slowed, and he nodded feebly, “I know, Sansa. Thank you. I know you understand better than most.” Noticing the tears in her eyes and his own tears on her stole he looked embarrassed, “I apologize, my lady. You have enough to worry about without—”

“Please don’t insult me with your apology, it is neither warranted nor desired. You are my friend, Jaime.”

He nodded and rose, helping Sansa up as well. She offered him a square of linen which made him smile, “Knights are supposed to offer Ladies their handkerchiefs, not the other way around.”

She returned his smile, “When have I ever done things the way they’re _supposed_ to be done?”

He chuckled before pressing a kiss to her right hand, “My lady, you continue to break all the right rules.”

“Thank you, Ser… please, take the time you need to mourn. Ask Derik or Brienne to take over your duties in the interim.”

He shook his head, “I think I’d prefer the distraction. I’ll compose myself and return to my duties.”

“As you wish.”

He bowed his exit, and once she was alone Sansa permitted herself to cry.


	53. My Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa seeks comfort, then has doubts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still reading this, thanks. You've put a lot of time in, and I hope I don't disappoint.
> 
> Song credits (more info in end notes)
> 
> First song is "Stubborn Love" by the Lumineers. One of my fave songs.
> 
> Second song is "Second Chances" by Gregory Alan Isakov.

**Sandor**

At six o’clock that evening the usual group assembled in Sansa’s private solar. Theon, Tormund, and Beth Cassel were also summoned. Sansa bid them to begin eating while she finished a letter in progress. She barely lifted her eyes, but it was enough for Sandor to notice they were puffy and slightly red.

_She’s been crying._

She did not join them in eating, instead sipping wine.

_She’s drinking… and not eating. Not a good sign._

Theon was first to deliver an update. He and Podrick and their chosen guards would be ready to depart at midday the following day. At Sansa’s praise he shrugged, “If Jon needs our aid, no reason to delay.”

Beth spoke next, “We plan to leave for Deepwood Motte at dawn in six days. We will be ready sooner, but… well, we want to give the men some more time with their families…”

Sansa nodded as Beth continued, “Lady Lyanna sent word to her sister Alysane at Bear Island. They’ll make sure their ships are docked at Deepwood within a fortnight, ready to ferry over our people and supplies, as well as those arriving from other houses.”

“Very good, Beth. Thank you.”

Poole and Jaime exchanged a glance and curt nod before Jaime spoke, “The guards and soldiers have been informed of the… situation, and the estimated timeframe. Ser Poole, Sandor, Brienne, Derik, and I will each take a batallion and begin drills. When Tormund’s people arrive, he’ll do the same, as will Jon… we’ll coordinate with the commanders from the other Houses as they arrive.”

Sansa nodded, “Lady Cerwyn’s army will arrive first, though it is quite small. Next will be the Tallhart forces. Tormund, I expect Val will have your people here in a fortnight, then the Karstarks and Flints will arrive probably around the same time as Jon, if not a bit later.”

Everyone nodded their understanding.

“Are there any other matters that need to be addressed?”

Seeing there were none, Sansa turned to Jaime, “Ser Jaime, if you wish to retire, you may…”

The knight seemed to understand whatever hidden meaning she was conveying to him. He shook his head, “It’s alright, my lady, please proceed.”

Sansa cleared her throat, “I’d prefer not to burden you with this, but I’m sure you’ll all be hearing rumors from the South within a sennight, and I’d rather you hear it from me directly.”

She took a deep breath, “King Tommen and Queen Margaery are dead, along with many of the Tyrells and most of the Faith Militant…”

Tyrion and Brienne inhaled their shock. “How?!” Tyrion exclaimed, at the same moment Brienne whispered, “I’m so sorry, Jaime, Tyrion.”

Sansa handed the scroll to Tyrion but did not answer his question, “All that matters is that Cersei Lannister has been crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and has given me two moons to appear before her and bend the knee. My failure to do so will be viewed as an act of treason and likely war.”

Sandor stepped forward, “Lit- my lady, it’s a trap, you cannot go to King’s Landing. Cersei believes you killed Joffrey…”

Sansa raised a hand, “I have no intention of going to King’s Landing or even sending a delegate. The North will not kneel to a madwoman. If we survive the battle against the dead, I know we will be in poor shape, however it will still not be easy for her to take the North. Winter is here, and Cersei’s armies would have to get past our most loyal Houses – the Reeds of Greywater Watch and the Cassels of Moat Cailin. Should they succeed, I’m confident I can call the Knights of the Vale to our aid. Cersei’s forces would then be trapped between ours to the North and Lord Arryn’s to the South, we can starve them out even if we cannot defeat them… that’s assuming she is reckless enough to march on the North while Daenerys is intent on taking the Iron Throne.”

Sandor protested, “You say you can get your cousin Robert Arryn to send his armies, but you told us before that Littlefinger pulls the strings – he is still Protector of the Vale until Robert comes of age…”

“That is true, but Petyr Baelish will answer my call.”

Sandor felt sick, “Why? Baelish doesn’t do anything that doesn’t benefit him.”

“I am well aware.”

“So how then? How will you appeal to Littlefinger?”

“That is not your concern, I wish all of you to remain focused on the threat that is nearly at our gates. What happens after that will be dealt with when the time comes.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

She curtly dismissed everyone from her solar, saying she had more letters to write, but Sandor did not leave with the others. “I have neither the time nor tolerance for a lecture right now,” she spoke without pausing her writing.

“I thought you made me your shield because you want my counsel.”

She sighed and put down her quill, “Speak.”

“I’d rather see you bend the knee to _either_ of the mad queens than to throw yourself at Littlefinger’s feet.”

“Noted,” she picked up her quill, but Sandor snatched her wrist.

“Don’t—”

“You listen to me, girl. I know exactly what would get Littlefinger to answer your call, and I’m telling you now, if I even _think_ you’re planning to offer it, I’ll climb to the fucking Eyrie myself and kill the fucker before you get the chance,” he gripped her chin hard, lowering his face to be only inches from hers, “then you as Harry’s widow will be free to do as you please with the Knights of the Vale until your cousin comes of age. Do you understand me?”

She wanted to be angry at his defiance and at the rough way he was handling her, but all she heard was his confession, all she felt was his affection. He would risk his very life before seeing her wed to Littlefinger, the man who caused her so much suffering.

So she nodded.

“Good,” his grip softened, but he did not release her chin, and she didn’t pull away. He studied her lips for a moment before meeting her eyes again. His thumb gently stroked the skin he’d just reddened with, “Now tell me why you were crying earlier.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie, I can smell it. Was it because of Tommen? Or the Wall? Or Cersei?”

“All of it, I suppose,” her eyes would not meet his.

“I told you not to lie.”

_I can’t tell you why I was crying. I won’t tell you…_

Just thinking it made her tears come. She expected Sandor to continue, he clearly knew she was holding something back. But he didn’t press, he only held her face in both hands, wiping away her tears with his calloused thumbs, letting her cry into his hands for several minutes before she looked up at him and spoke, “I don’t want to think anymore, Sandor. I’m tired of thinking, tired of hurting…”

He took it as the invitation it was, lowering his mouth to kiss her lips gently. He kneeled before her chair and she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her kisses were much like the night she came to his room: needy. His hands moved from her cheeks to her hair, tilting her neck back gently, kissing the soft skin there. He kissed along her jaw, then found her lips again.

“Please, Sandor, please,” she breathed against his mouth.

“Please what, little bird? Tell me what you want.”

“Please… I want to forget. Please make me forget.”

Without hesitation he picked her up, continuing to kiss her neck as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She wanted him to take her here, like this, but knew that would mean having her full body, or at least her legs, on display. One look at her scars would steal his lust and replace it with rage.

“Not here, Sandor,” She nodded to the door that connected her solar to her bedchamber. He carried her through the door and deposited her onto her feather bed. The room was illuminated only by moonlight as she normally didn’t light her fire until after the evening meal. He looked down at her only a moment before he began peeling off his leather armor. She removed her boots, the chain around her neck, and her doublet. She left her tunic on and got under the covers before pulling off her breeches. She left her smallclothes on as Sandor was still removing his armor. She sat up, keeping her legs covered by the blankets, and helped him with his vambraces and chest armor.

Once free of his armor he wasted no time in kicking off his boots and pulling his tunic over his head while she worked loose the laces of his breeches. She pulled them down along with his smallclothes. Even in the moonlight she could see how magnificent he was. She had seen him without a tunic, and once without breeches, but never had be stood before her completely bare from head to toe. He was the Warrior incarnate, well-defined muscles that bulged with the slightest movement. His collection of scars only enhanced his appeal, representing all the lesser men he’d bested in battle. She touched one on his left breast, making his nipple harden under her feathery touch. “Axe, when I was seven and ten,” he answered her unvoiced question. She found another, a long, puckered line on the right side of his waist. “Sword, nine and ten, I think the fucker was trying to cut me in half,” he chuckled.

Without removing her finger from his side she dragged it lightly in a straight line all the way to the dark hair that surrounded his thick manhood. She continued through the rough hair and down his shaft, all the way to the tip. His cock twitched under her touch. “You’re teasing me, girl, you know I don’t like being trifled with.”

Grasping his shaft in her hand she squeezed him tightly but did not stroke. She looked up at him, “What are you going to do about it?”

His mouth fell upon hers and for a moment she was airborne as he lifted her off the mattress just enough to toss her back against the pillows. She pulled the blankets with her. When he was atop her again, his mouth to hers, she lifted the blankets just enough to give him entry before pulling them down over both of them.

Sandor’s hands went to pull off her tunic, but she stopped him. He looked confused, “You shy, girl?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“Fair enough, you don’t let me look upon your gorgeous teats, but you let me inside your sweet cunt; I suppose I’m in no position to complain.”

She slid off her smallclothes as he resumed kissing her neck and jaw. Once they were off, she felt him spread her legs apart with his knee. She hooked her arms under his to grasp his shoulders. He was so large, so wide and muscular – felt so different than Petyr, Ramsay, or even Harry. If she kept her eyes open, kept her hands on him, she would know it was only him – only Sandor.

But panic started to build in her. _What if it happens again after he starts, once he’s inside me?_ It was humiliating enough to freeze up when they were kissing, but to freeze up while he was inside her would be absolutely mortifying. He must have sensed her anxiety as he removed his lips from hers and looked at her with concern, “You with me, little bird?”

“Yes… I… I’m just…”

He lifted his hips away from hers, “It’s alright, we don’t have to…”

“No, please, I want to… I just don’t want…”

“I know… maybe… do you want to get on top?”

He must have remembered that she had no trouble with their intimacy when she was on top of him. She wanted to kiss him for being so thoughtful when he could have taken her with no regard for her comfort. But truthfully, she wanted to lay with him _like this._ She was aroused by his strength, his physicality. Anytime she fantasized about him they were like this. It shamed and confused her, given her past experiences with other men, but she wanted him to take her, to claim her body. From any other man it would frighten her, she would interpret it as him trying to dominate her, possess her. But with Sandor she thought it would mean the opposite. Everything about him was so coarse, so violent… the idea of him taking her gently seemed disingenuous. She fantasized about him pounding into her deep and hard and knew it would mean he was giving himself to her fully, not taking everything she had.

“I want you, like this,” she kissed his neck to demonstrate her sincerity. “I just, I need to look at you, to know it’s you, and also…” She was glad it was too dark for him to see the blush she knew was there.

“What, little bird?”

“Maybe, you can talk to me. If I hear your voice, and see your face, and feel your body…”

His lips curled into a grin, “Little bird wants me to talk dirty, eh? Well who am I to deny my queen?”

They kissed passionately, smiling into each other’s mouths. After a few minutes, he lifted her left leg to prop it over his hip. He was so hard he didn’t need to grip himself to push past her fleshy gates. She moaned at the exquisite feeling.

“That’s a good girl, I want to hear you sing.”

She continued moaning, not because of his request, but because it felt so glorious that she couldn’t help herself. They continued kissing, only pausing when he whispered into her mouth, “Fuck girl, you feel so fucking good.”

He trailed kisses down her neck as her nails scraped over the middle of his back, causing him to hiss, “Trying to make your own mark? I’ve not enough scars for you?”

“Sandor,” she mewled.

“Tell me what you want, girl. Tell me how you like it.”

“Harder, please.”

“Courteous little bird,” he said as he drove deeply into her one time, causing her to squeal. “Still want it hard, then?”

“Yes, Gods, yes.”

She knew he was surprised by her wantonness, but she couldn’t find it in her to care about anything but the sensation deep within her.

“Keep talking like that girl and I’m not going to last very long; you do know how to tease an old dog.”

“Please, please…”

“Please what?”

“Fa-faster. Sandor, please.”

“Fuck girl, what are you doing to me?” But he complied. Burying his cock in her fully he gave her short, fast thrusts that had his balls smacking against her body. The speed was working, as she began writhing beneath him, desperate for as much friction as she could get.

“Seven Hells, bird, I think your cunny was made for me. Gods finally saw fit to give me a gift I’d actually want.”

Her pleasure was building, she felt her head tossing side to side on the pillow involuntarily. She could no longer maintain eye contact, but his voice and touch were enough to keep the ghosts at bay.

“Sandor, Gods, please… please don’t stop!”

“You going to come for me, little bird? You going to come on my cock again? Hmm?”

“Y-yes…”

“Good. I want your cunt to milk me off, milk every fucking drop out of me until I’m an empty fucking sack, can you do that little bird?”

“Gods, yes!” she cried. The pressure was building. She bore down on him, pressing her sensitive bit of tissue to the top of his shaft. She could feel it, so close, just out of reach, she needed just a little more…

“Please, faster, pleeease!”

He obliged, thrusting so quickly it was more vibration than stroking.

“Sing little bird, fuck, sing for me now! _Now,_ Sansa!”

Her body answered his demand. The wave of sweet nothingness crashed down on her. She felt herself scream but the noise was muffled by the large hand she didn’t know he put there. She was still riding her wave when she felt him collapse on her, pressing himself as deeply as he could go as the fingers of his left hand gripped her hip painfully. 

In her state of bliss she’d gladly have let herself be crushed to death by Sandor Clegane’s heavy frame, but he had enough awareness to prop himself up on his forearms.

As he came down from his ecstasy, he planted a kiss to her sweaty forehead as he whispered, “Little bird.” He rolled onto his back before pulling her to his chest.

\------------------------------------------------

> _“Little dove, did you really think your defiance would go unpunished?” Cersei and everyone in the throne room giggles._
> 
> _“Stupid little wolf bitch wants to play at being queen. You know nothing about ruling a kingdom! At least the Targaryen bitch has her dragons, what do you offer your people? Your traitor blood? What a joke!”_
> 
> _More laughter erupts. Sansa looks around but does not remember how she got here, kneeling in front of Cersei as Meryn Trant and Boros Blount hold swords to her neck._
> 
> _Tywin Lannister appears out of nowhere, looking utterly bored, “Cersei, she may be stupid, but we still need her claim.”_
> 
> _“You are right, father. We need the wolf alive, but the others are of no use to us. Let us show them what happens to those who choose wolf over lion.”_
> 
> _“A most wise decision, your excellence,” Tywin yawns._
> 
> _Sandor, Jon, Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion, Theon, and Tormund are led into the room in chains._
> 
> _“No!” Sansa screams, “It is me you want, do not punish them!”_
> 
> _“Silly little dove, this **is** your punishment.”_
> 
> _Ilyn Payne smirks as he approaches her comrades, but it is not a longsword he wields, it is a dagger – Sansa’s dagger._
> 
> _“No, Cersei, please! I’ll do anything you want. Name it! You can have my head, my kingdom, just let them live, pleeease!”_
> 
> _“You are ugly when you grovel little dove, do you know that?”_
> 
> _One by one Ilyn Payne slices open their throats, after each one Sansa screams and begs to no avail. When Ilyn is about to cut Sandor’s throat Cersei stops him, “That is too merciful for this dog.” She walks down the steps and removes a torch from its sconce on one of the columns._
> 
> _“No, Cersei don’t! Please, I’ll give you anything! I’ll tell you anything.”_
> 
> _Sansa sees the look of terror in Sandor’s face as Cersei approaches him with the flame. Like the coward she is Sansa squeezes her eyes shut, she cannot watch him burn…_

“Sansa! Little bird, wake up!”

Her eyes flung open to find Sandor’s face. She pushed him aside with all her might, intent on putting herself between him and Cersei, but found no one else in the room.

“It was a dream!” she cried out, ecstatic over the realization.

“A nightmare, little bird, you were screaming and crying,” the concern in his voice was plain.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he let her pull him down.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she cried into his chest.

“You needn’t apologize for having a nightmare, girl.”

“No, I’m sorry for getting you into this… getting you all into this. You’re all going to die, and it will be my fault!”

“Little bird, is that what troubles you? You didn’t make any of us do anything, and if we die it’ll be the bloody Night King’s fault, not yours.”

She shook her head, “You don’t understand, it’s my curse. Everyone around me dies. Everyone I care about or who cares about me dies. _Everyone!”_

Sandor propped himself above her and took her tear-stained face in his hands, “That’s war, little bird. Your family died because of the war, not because of you. War wipes out entire families all the time, yours isn’t the only one. And this thing coming for us, I won’t lie and tell you we will all survive, but any of us who doesn’t will die because of the dead, not because of you. Are you listening to me?”

_He doesn’t understand. How can I make him understand?_

“You need to protect yourself, Sandor, please. Get far away from me. I shouldn’t have let you care about me; I shouldn’t have let myself care about you.” She pulled herself away from his grasp.

“Sansa, caring about you, serving you, it’s the only thing that gives my worthless life any meaning. And if I die for you, for your North, then it’ll be the most honorable thing I’ve ever done.”

“But I don’t want you to die for the North, and certainly not for me! I don’t want you to die at all. I want… I want…”

“What do you want?”

_I want to love you. I want to marry you. I want to leave this fucking continent with you and forget about everything._ “I just want everyone to be safe.”

He sighed, “You shouldn’t waste time wishing for that. No one is ever safe.”

“I am.”

He looked at her, puzzled, “What does that mean?”

“I’m always safe. Not from harm, but from death. It never finds me though I’ve prayed for it, I’ve willed it to take me. No matter how reckless, no matter how stupid… nothing I do can bring it. I stopped praying to the Mother and Father and Maiden long ago. I only ever pray to the Stranger, and he never answers.”

Sandor’s nostrils flared, and she immediately knew she’d said too much.

“You listen to me. You stop talking that way… if you’re thinking of—”

“I’m not. I’m not going to _do_ anything, not again,” she knew he’d seen the scar on her wrist, there was no point in denying it, “there’s no use. I’m cursed. I don’t know what the Gods want from me, but whatever it is, I’ll have no peace until it’s done. I’ll have to keep watching people die. I don’t want to watch you die, Sandor... any of you!”

As she spoke, she pulled her breeches on beneath the covers, and now rose to pour herself a goblet of wine. After a few minutes of silence Sandor dressed and walked to where she stood staring at the hearth that wasn’t lit. He took a long sip out of her goblet before refilling it for both of them.

More minutes went by as they passed the wine back and forth. Finally she heard him sigh, “You told me you have other songs.”

“What?”

“The night you sang the song, the one with fire and rain, you said you wrote many songs.”

She knew he was trying to distract her, like a mother distracts a petulant child, and she didn’t like being treated this way. Somehow, he always made her feel like a child. “What of it?”

He shrugged, “Might be I’d like to hear some more.”

“I’m not in the mood, Sandor.”

He took her earlobe between his teeth then whispered, “I can get you in the mood.”

His action had its intended consequence as a small chuckle escaped her throat against her will.

“Fine, I suppose I’d rather sing than do _that._ ”

“Was it that bad?”

She swatted his arm, then retrieved something from her wardrobe.

“What the fuck is that?”

“An instrument.”

He rolled his eyes, “I figured that much. What kind?”

“It’s a mandolin.”

“Where did you get it?”

She shrugged, “I’ve had it since I was a child. A traveling minstrel played it for my family. He was from Meereen, or, Astapor? I loved its sound. I had played the harp when I was young, but it was big, and you can’t really sing along to the harp, the harp has its own voice.” She looked up to see Sandor staring at her, clearly not sharing her passion for music. Frowning she continued as she strummed a few notes and tuned the instrument, “I begged my father to buy it for me and he did.”

Sandor huffed, “Had to have cost old Ned a nice bit of gold to buy a man’s livelihood off of him. Must be nice growing up so rich.”

Sansa snorted, “And I suppose you grew up destitute? Clegane Keep may be small but your father was still a Lord, you were still _rich_ compared to the smallfolk.”

“Not rich enough to pay gold for a bit of wood and string,”

“Do you want to hear it or not?”

He shrugged, “Got nothing better to do.”

Sansa was trying to act as if she were doing him a favor, but truthfully the moment the beautiful instrument was in her hands she wanted nothing more than to play and sing. It was the only bit of joy she was allowed while living with Ramsay.

“Alright, do you want to hear a song about Arya, Littlefinger, Joffrey, or… well, one that’s about you?”

“Hah! Why don’t you write songs about war and drinking and fucking like everyone else does?”

“I have those too, well, just the war, I have one about drinking, but it’s not done yet.”

“So none about fucking?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Fine, let me hear the one about your little wolf sister, to start.”

“To start? What makes you think I’m going to play you more than one song?”

“What makes you think I’ll want to hear more than one?”

She rolled her eyes and strummed a few notes, then closed her eyes and took a moment to remember the words and melody. Just before starting she paused, “Remember, if you don’t like it you have to lie.”

“Of course, your grace,” he offered an exaggerated bow.

> _She'll lie and steal and cheat_
> 
> _Then beg you from her knees_
> 
> _Make you think she means it this time_
> 
> _She'll tear a hole in you, one you can't repair_
> 
> _But I still love her, I don't even care_
> 
> _When we were young_
> 
> _Oh-oh-oh-oh, we didn’t know_
> 
> _When it got cold_
> 
> _Ooh ooh, we bundled up_
> 
> _She can't be told_
> 
> _Noo-noo it can't be done_
> 
> _It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all_
> 
> _The opposite of love's indifference_
> 
> _So listen closely now_
> 
> _I'm standing at your door screaming loud_
> 
> _And I won't leave until you come out_
> 
> _So keep your head up, keep your love up_
> 
> _Keep your head up, sister_
> 
> _Keep your head up, sister_
> 
> _Keep your head up, keep your love up_
> 
> _And I don't blame you dear_
> 
> _For running like you did, all these years_
> 
> _I would do the same, you best believe_
> 
> _And I always dreamt you were close_
> 
> _But I don't believe those things anymore_
> 
> _Can’t even trust in my own eyes_
> 
> _When we were young_
> 
> _Oh-oh-oh-oh, we didn’t know_
> 
> _When it got cold_
> 
> _Ooh ooh, we bundled up_
> 
> _She can't be told_
> 
> _Noo-noo it can't be done_
> 
> _Keep your head up, keep your love up_
> 
> _Keep your head up, sister_
> 
> _Keep your head up, sister_
> 
> _Keep your head up, keep your love up_
> 
> _Head up, love_
> 
> _Head up…_

Sansa blushed as she finished the song and realized she’d been singing her heart out with her eyes closed. She knew Sandor would think the song silly, not having such mixed feelings about his own siblings, “I guess, you have to know Arya like I do, otherwise it probably doesn’t make much sense.”

He was staring at her as he answered, “It makes sense. I liked the first bit. And the part about the opposite of love being indifference.”

She felt herself beaming at him like a fool, “Right? Hate and love are two sides to the same coin. Often the ones who anger us the most are the ones we love, or the ones who are supposed to love us…”

_Like your brother._

He nodded, understanding. “Another one.”

She couldn’t hold back her smile, “Which one?”

“You pick.”

She nodded, “Alright, this one’s a bit slower, probably not your taste, but it’s one of my favorites so—”

He rolled his eyes, “Stop chirping and start singing, little bird.”

She blushed again but began the song.

> _All of my heroes they stand up straight_
> 
> _Through skin made of stone_
> 
> _They radiate_
> 
> _I'm mumbling in the kitchen for the sun to come up_
> 
> _Lonely is the ring of a cold ale cup_
> 
> _I'm some sick hound_
> 
> _Digging for bones_
> 
> _If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone_
> 
> _My hands they’re strangers lost in the night_
> 
> _They're waving around in the dusty light_
> 
> _I'm waiting in the dark while the trees undress_
> 
> _Cupping my ear to hear the wind confess_
> 
> _I'm a ghost in the garden_
> 
> _Scared of the crows_
> 
> _If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone_
> 
> _I'm running from nothing, no thoughts in my mind_
> 
> _Oh my heart was all black_
> 
> _But I saw something shine_
> 
> _Thought that part was yours, but it might just be mine_
> 
> _I could share it with you, if you gave me the time_
> 
> _I'm all bloody knuckles, longing for home_
> 
> _If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone_
> 
> _I'm a shadow in the dark_
> 
> _Blacker than coal_
> 
> _If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone_

This time when she opened her eyes Sandor was staring at her, mouth agape, “That was… beautiful, little bird.”

“You mean it?”

“Aye, might be my favorite yet… and not just because I’m the sick hound.”

Sansa tilted her head and eyed him curiously before giggling.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re _not_ the hound.”

“I’m not? The ghost in the garden? The shadow in the dark?”

Sansa was touched that he remembered so much of the song after hearing it only once, “No, _I’m_ the sick hound, the ghost, the shadow…”

He seemed to be pondering something as he pointed his chin at her, “Sing the part about seeing something shine.”

She complied:

> _I'm running from nothing, no thoughts in my mind_
> 
> _Oh my heart was all black_
> 
> _But I saw something shine_
> 
> _Thought that part was yours, but it might just be mine_
> 
> _I could share it with you, if you gave me the time_

“So who do you want to give your shine to, then?” He asked, sounding slightly jealous.

She giggled again, “You.”

He shook his head in disbelief, “I’m sorry little bird but you’ve got that part backwards, I’m the hound who wants some of your time. I’m the one with the black heart.”

“Well then I suppose you’ll have to write your own song.”

“Might be I will! Let me see that thing.”

She snatched the mandolin back protectively, “No, you’ve been known to break things when you get frustrated.”

“I’m not going to break your frilly little instrument, now give it here.”

She handed it to him, secretly eager to see his large fingers try to pluck the thin cords. She was not disappointed.

“Who’s this thing made for, dwarves?”

She chuckled, then took his big fingers and positioned them on the instrument. He grasped the neck too firmly, “What would you tell me if I held a sword that way?”

He looked at his hand, “I’d tell you to loosen your grip.”

She grinned and nodded, “And you’re not trying to murder someone with your thumb, though I’ve no doubt you’re capable, you’re…” she flicked her thumb in the air, “wiping a crumb from a lover’s mouth.”

“Wouldn’t know.”

She rolled her eyes and watched him fumble with the instrument before handing it back to her, “Here, music is for women and fairies anyway. Play me the one about Joffrey, assuming it’s about how much of a rotten cunt he was.”

She giggled again, “No, that’s enough for one night. You’ve kept me from my work long enough.”

“You kept yourself from your work as I recall.”

She sighed in mock exasperation, “You’re dismissed, Clegane.”

“As my lady commands,” he winked at her before exiting through her solar out into the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Second Chances" by Gregory Alan Isakov. Love this song, and it's the one that first made me want to incorporate contemporary songs into my fic. It totally reminded me of Sandor, but I ended up deciding that Sansa wrote it from her own POV - just goes to show how broken she thinks she is, but the fact that Sandor hears the song and thinks she wrote it from his POV shows that he thinks he's the broken one. Maybe two broken people combine to form one whole person. :)
> 
> Also - Sansa doesn't reveal this, but I figure she wrote this song shortly after Sandor arrived in Winterfell when her feelings for him began to blossom.


	54. Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa struggles with her feelings

**Sandor**

Men from Sansa’s Vassal houses began arriving within a sennight. Commanders were given quarters in the Guards Hall and even the Guest Hall, but most of the soldiers had to make camp outside Winterfell’s southern and eastern walls.

After Sansa’s confession Sandor knew she was worried but did not let it show. She was firm and cold to everyone, including him, much to his dismay. He had hoped for more _private_ moments with her, but she gave him no indication that she desired any such interactions. For most of the day he was too busy to think about her, except when he overheard someone else mention her. Twice Beric had to stop him from beating cocky soldiers into a fine dust. The first was a Tallhart man who, after seeing Sansa walk by, told his comrades that he knew ways to make the Ice Queen melt. The other was a Cerwyn man who compared Sansa’s _frigid_ nature with the Wall itself – a Wall he wouldn’t mind being sentenced to.

Sandor continued to assume her aloofness was due to the stress of not just the Night King’s army, but of the threat that came from Cersei Lannister. Her distance bothered him, but he did not take it personally, until, more than a sennight after the evening they spent together, he arrived at her solar a few minutes early for the meeting and found her giggling at something Tyrion had just said

_Fucking imp._

When Sandor entered Sansa’s smile fell away and her mask took its place.

_So that’s how it is?_

He did not hide his scowl. Tyrion noticed the tension and tried to break it with jest, “Now, now, there’s no need to spend the final days of our lives sulking.”

Sansa and Sandor ignored him, though the former made a half-hearted attempt at a smile. Before the tension could grow any larger the others arrived, and the meeting commenced. When all the matters were discussed Sandor was surprised that Sansa dismissed the others but asked him to stay. Tyrion waddled out last and shut the door after throwing Sandor a smirk.

_Fucking imp._

Uncomfortable seconds passed as she stared at her hands. Wanting it to be over with, he spoke first, “My lady?”

“Yes, my apologies, my mind is still elsewhere.”

_Liar._

“I thought that perhaps I’ve been behaving… I’ve been treating you unfairly.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” _I’m not going to make this easy on you._

She sighed, “After the night… the _nights_ we’ve spent together… I didn’t want you to think I was avoiding you…”

“Even though you have been,” his tone was matter of fact, but he kept his anger at bay.

He could see her temptation to deny it, but to her credit she did not, “Yes, I suppose I have been… I just wanted to tell you that it isn’t anything you did…”

It was painful watching her struggle for the _polite_ words, so he decided to show her mercy, “I know, it’s because of what you told me the other night, because you don’t want anyone close to you, because you feel _cursed_. I thought I already told you I don’t care one whit about your curse, even if I did believe it.”

“It isn’t that. Well, it’s partly that, I admit I’m hesitant to get… _attached_ to anyone, given what is coming, and the very real possibility that, well, you know…. But it isn’t just that, it’s because of _after.”_

He shook his head, “After what? The battle with the dead? If we survive that, my lady, I truly don’t think it should matter who you or anyone else lays with.”

“It won’t! It’s not that.”

_This woman and her chirping will be the death of me._

“Then _what_ is it? You afraid to say something that will hurt my feelings? I’ll save you some trouble, I don’t have any feelings left to hurt.”

“Sandor, I know that’s not true, but that’s not it either… I just, I want to spare you the pain.”

“Pain of what?”

“Pain of being with me.”

He exhaled, “So far, girl, the only _painful_ thing about _being_ _with_ _you_ is moments like these. Would you stop worrying about me, about us? You’ve got more important matters needing your attention.”

“There is nothing more important than this, to me.”

_Nothing more important to you than me? Than us?_

“Sandor, I’m not… I can’t be what you need.”

“And what is it you think I need?”

“Someone _whole_. Someone who can help you battle your demons, not someone who will make you battle hers.”

“My demons are dead, and I enjoy a good battle, so either way your argument is null.”

She smiled weakly, “Your demons aren’t dead, Sandor. I know you’ve come a long way, but I can see them every time I look at you.”

“Then fuck ‘em, we’ll battle our demons together, two is better than one, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that simple, Sandor!”

He was about to protest when a realization hit him. _She’s looking for excuses. She regrets laying with you, dog, and she’s looking for a polite way of getting rid of you._

He laughed, “You know girl, after all you’ve been through, you’re still so worried about being _polite._ Being _courteous.”_ He grabbed her arms and held her tightly. “How about you show me this _brave_ queen I keep hearing about? Because all I see is the same little bird chirping her courtesies. You laid with a dog and now you want out, just fucking say so! You think I don’t know I’m no prize? No lands, no title, no pretty face. Guess I look better in the dark, eh? You can pretend I’ve got a handsome face to match the rest of me!”

[Slap]

As with the last one, he never saw it coming.

_Fucking Kingslayer and his dagger lessons, she’s gotten too fast._

“You, you’re… you’re…”

He rolled his hand in front of her, “Ugly? Mean? Hateful?”

“You’re stubborn!”

“Hah! Try harder, girl I’ve heard better insults from Brienne.”

“You’re dense and you don’t listen!”

“You’re going in the wrong direction.”

“You think I don’t want to be with you because you’re _scarred_ , because you’re not some _handsome_ knight who speaks sweet words?!”

“As I’ve been saying…”

“Then you’re as blind as you are stubborn! It’s because _I’m_ not those things!”

“A handsome knight?” he cocked an eyebrow.

“Because I’m not sweet and beautiful and kind and patient and all the things you deserve. I’m not warm. I’ve got my own scars, I have my own demons, my own ghosts.”

“Aye? I wouldn’t know since you tell me absolutely _nothing!_ ”

“I don’t need to tell _you_ anything!”

He huffed, “Aye, because I’m just your shield, and your bedwarmer.”

She reached to grab his arm as he turned toward the door, “Sandor, how can you say that?”

“It’s alright little bird, you think I wanted to be something more? I’ll take your cunt without all the other fuckery you women like to impose on your mates. I’ll give you my cock when you want it, just spare me the cold shoulder that follows.”

[Slap]

He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, “That’s getting old, girl.”

“Get out!” she shoved him as hard as she could though he barely budged. 

“As you wish,” he mumbled as he exited.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

The days following their argument, Sansa and Sandor returned to the roles that should have defined their relationship all along, but never had. Each morning at eight o’clock he knocked on her door, then led her to the main dining hall. Each evening at six o’clock he joined the rest of her council in her private solar to discuss the day’s events, then departed with the rest of them. On the fourth day, Sandor broke his silence as they walked together to break their fasts, “My lady, it shouldn’t have taken me so long to say this, but I apologize for my harsh words the other night. I’m sure you know I was being purposefully hurtful, and there is no excuse.”

She sighed, “It’s alright, Sandor, I was the one who behaved inappropriately to begin with. You’d been nothing but proper with me since you arrived here, I was the one to put us in that _situation_. I was only trying to correct my mistake, but I managed to only make it worse.”

He peered at her, but she ignored him.

“Right, well it takes two to make _that_ mistake, so I won’t let you take all the blame. So where does this leave us?”

She blushed, “You are my shield, I’ll continue to keep your counsel, and I’d like to think… well I hope, if it please you, that we can be friends… of a sort, just as I consider Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion, and Tormund to be my friends.”

“Aye, lit- my lady.”

It wasn’t what she wanted. Her heart screamed for him, but she suppressed it. She buried her desire in the deep place where she kept her memories and fears. She pushed it down with all the other inconvenient emotions that interfered with her duties. The bit of tenderness between them would do neither of them any good, and Sandor would thank her someday. He would die, and it would kill her like it did when every member of her family died. Or she would die, and he would become the Hound again – angry that the one person who finally cared about him had been ripped away.

No – she was past denying that she cared about him, but she would starve those feelings until they died a slow death, or until they were too weak to cause her any trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... this chapter may seem a bit out of place but Sansa is truly stuck in her head. Despite the mask she wears on the inside she is filled with doubt and fear. She's also relatively young and has never had a healthy romantic relationship, so she has not yet learned how to work through her issues. 
> 
> And of course, Sandor's self defense mechanism is to act like he doesn't care even when he cares deeply. 
> 
> But ultimately I don't want this fic to be super angsty, so don't worry.


	55. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drinking game, an argument, and an understanding.

**Sansa**

A fortnight after the raven brought Jon’s bleak news, an impromptu feast was organized at the encouragement of Tyrion, who saw no reason why the last weeks of their lives should be spent on ‘ _all work and no play_ ’, as he put it. Sansa joked that she should name him the Master-of-Entertainment, and Tyrion seemed to hope she was serious. Like Winterfell’s previous feast, and the feasts at Castle Black, the food was simple, but the spirits flowed plentifully. It didn’t take long for men to break out into song, and women into dance.

After dinner, Sansa stood in the large hall conversing with Beth Cassel. A shy squire worked up the courage to ask Beth to dance, and as Beth was led away by the hand to the center of the large hall, Sansa heard herself being summoned.

“Ah, my lovely queen, I see you are unoccupied. Please, join us, we need more players to make this game interesting,” Tyrion spoke in his devilish tone.

“If this is a game of _your_ creation, Lord Tyrion, I must admit I’m rather wary...”

“Nonsense! This game has been played since the dawn of civilization in every winesink, alehouse, tavern and brothel throughout Westeros!”

Sansa suspected that was a lie, but curiosity got the better of her, particularly when she saw the group that had already gathered to play: Tyrion, Jaime, Tormund, and a very awkward-looking Brienne. Sansa couldn’t leave poor Brienne alone with those three, and, truthfully, she enjoyed the company of all these men, particularly after consuming a few cups of wine as she had this evening.

As Sansa made to sit next to Jaime, across from Tormund, Sandor and one of the guards walked past their table, eyeing them all suspiciously. Tyrion shouted to him, “Come on Clegane, we’re about to play a _very_ amusing game.” When Sandor didn’t react, Tyrion continued, sardonically, “You see, a _game_ is when several friends work to best each other at a given task, while abiding by a set of rules…”

“Ah shut up dwarf, I know what a game is. They’re for children and bored ladies-in-waiting.”

“Oh this game is decidedly NOT for children, and I doubt many ladies-in-waiting play it, though if they do their lord husbands would be in for a rather enjoyable evening. This is a _drinking_ game, my surly friend.”

Sansa looked at Tyrion, “You seem to have withheld _that_ bit of information when asking me to play!”

“That was an unintentional oversight, your grace – by the way, it feels rather _improper_ to refer to you as ‘your grace’ while getting drunk together. Will you permit us to forego the formality, just for this evening, and address you by your given name?”

“I’d permit _anyone_ to call me by my given name at _any_ time, drinking or not. _Your_ and _grace_ have become my two least favorite words in the entire common tongue.”

Tyrion laughed, “Thank you, your grace – I mean _Sansa!”_ He addressed the group, “Now, as you all know, there is one thing I take _very_ seriously – well, actually a few things…”

“…talking, fucking, drinking…” Jaime finished Tyrion’s sentence while rolling his eyes.

“Correct, brother, and this game involves two of those things!” Quickly, he clarified “The talking and the drinking, that is. Rest assured I have no desire to fuck Tormund… and I’m not sure he could handle my _cock_ anyway…”

Brienne scolded him, “Watch your tongue! You’re in the presence of a lady.”

Sansa reached across to pat her arm. “It’s alright, Brienne, I’ve heard worse, and have a feeling I’ll be hearing _much_ worse before this game is done,” Sansa glared at Tyrion.

“I’ll neither confirm nor deny your suspicion, my- Sansa… As I was saying, I take drinking _very_ seriously, and I happen to know that one of the few things Winterfell has in abundance is ale. Now, as there is a good possibility that none of us will live to see the next moon, I cannot, in good conscience, stand by and let all that ale go to waste, because if there is anything I _hate_ , it’s wastefulness...”

“You ever going to stop blabbering and get on with this bloody game?” Sandor rasped.

“Does that mean you’re joining us, Clegane?”

“Aye, for the drinking though, not the talking… and certainly not the _company,”_ he directed his eyes at Tyrion while sitting down across from him, in the conspicuously empty space between Tormund and Brienne.

“Fair enough. Now the rules are quite simple. We each take a turn saying “Never have I ever…” then you finish the sentence by saying something you’ve never done. And it must be true. At that point, anyone who _has_ done that thing must take a swig of ale. No _sipping_ …” he eyed Sansa, “we better hear a slurp from your ladylike mouth or else we’ll make you drink again.”

Tormund seemed confused, “That’s it? We say something we’ve never done then other people drink?”

Tyrion nodded, “Only if they _have_ done that thing, but yes, that’s it! I’ll go first, then we’ll continue around like so,” he circled his finger around the table, starting with himself, then to Jaime and Sansa at his right and across the table to Tormund, Sandor, and Brienne. “Oh, and you must put at least a _bit_ of effort into it, the idea is to learn things about each while getting too drunk to remember any of it the next morning!”

Tyrion pressed a finger to his mouth in thought. “Right. Never have I ever… had a pet _wolf_.”

All eyes turned to Sansa, though she did not drink. “What? A _direwolf_ and a _wolf_ are completely different creatures.”

“Ahh, very good Sansa! I see I’ll need to be clever to best you at this game!” Sansa swore she saw Sandor’s mouth curl up briefly before his normal scowl returned.

Tyrion took a deep gulp of his ale, “Oh, I forgot that part, if no one drinks at your statement than _you_ have to drink.”

“Alright, my turn,” Jaime spoke, “Let’s see… Ah yes! Never have I ever built a snowman.” Tormund and Sansa drank as a few of them giggled at the image of the fearsome Wildling doing something so childish.

At Sansa’s turn she had a question, “Is there any reward for getting _everyone_ to drink?”

“Why you _do_ play to win!” Tyrion grinned, “As a matter of fact, if you make everyone drink, you get to take another turn, but no more than two in a row.”

Sansa nodded, “Good, alright… never have I ever… swung a longsword!” All except Tormund drank, prompting Sansa to eye him suspiciously.

“What? We prefer axes in the North,” Tormund shrugged, before taking his turn. “Never have I ever… been to Dorne.” Everyone but Brienne and Sansa drank.

It was Sandor’s turn, and he looked uncomfortable with the sudden attention. He almost drank from his horn before stopping himself. “Right. Never have I ever…” It took him some time to come up with something, but it was a good one, “…danced.”

Everyone paused before Tyrion added, “You mean, at all?” Sandor nodded, and everyone drank. “Well, well, well… looks light we might have a dark horse in our midst. Go again, friend!”

Sandor huffed, displeased, but complied, “Never have I ever… been _north_ of the Wall.” Sansa, Tormund, Jaime, and Brienne drank.

At last it was Brienne’s turn, and her face colored red as a beet, “Never have I ever… sang a song.”

Again everyone but Sandor took a gulp. Looking at him, Sansa said, “Alright, I don’t know whether to be jealous that he’s winning, or to pity him that he’s not enjoying his ale, but regardless, we must get this man to drink!”

It was Tyrion’s turn, “As my lady commands!” He stared at Clegane, “Never have I ever won a tourney.” Jaime, Brienne and Sandor drank.

And so the game continued…

Jaime: “Never have I ever been married.” Sansa and Tyrion drank.

Sansa: “Never have I ever been to Essos.” Jaime, Tyrion, and Brienne drank.

Tormund: “Never have I ever fired a crossbow.” Sandor, Tyrion, and Jaime drank.

Sandor: “Never have I ever been on a ship.” Everyone but Tormund drank.

Brienne: “Never have I ever prayed in a Sept.”

Sansa and Jaime drank while Tyrion sought clarification, “I’ve _fucked_ in a sept, and I do seem to recall crying out to the Gods at the time, does that count?” Brienne only scowled though the others chuckled.

Tyrion: “I guess it doesn’t count, then… My turn? Alright, never have I ever eaten horse meat.” Tormund, Sandor, and Jaime drank.

Jaime: “Never have I ever worn a dress.” Brienne, Sansa, and Tyrion drank.

All eyes turned to Tyrion who shrugged and said only, “It’s a long story.”

Earning a few gasps, Sansa’s next statement was rather unladylike, though it earned her knowing grins from Brienne and Jaime, “Never have I ever fucked a bear!” Tormund drank, straightening his back in apparent pride.

Tormund looked at Sansa, defiantly. “I see the Red Wolf plays dirty. Fine by me! Never have I ever crawled through a tunnel!” Tyrion and Sansa drank, the latter narrowing her eyes at Tormund in mock anger.

Sandor: “Never have I ever rented out an entire whorehouse.”

Tyrion laughed and drank, looking not the least bit ashamed as he said, “Best two days of my life,” to which everyone chuckled.

Brienne was next to shock them, “Never have I ever bathed naked in a river.” Everyone but Tyrion drank, and Sandor and Tormund nearly spit out their ale when they saw Sansa take a gulp.

“I’d cut off a finger to see that!” Tormund exclaimed.

“I should hope not, I was but a child!” Sansa defended.

Tyrion got them back on task. “Who’s turn is it? Oh, wait it’s my turn.” He rubbed his eyes, clearly feeling the effects of the ale. “Alright, the ladies in our group don’t look nearly drunk enough. Never have I ever fucked a man!”

Sansa drank, but everyone was looking at Brienne, who shriveled under their gaze before speaking up, defiantly, “Oh don’t look so damn pitying, what makes you think laying with a _man_ is so wonderful?” They all chuckled, but mainly to break the awkwardness.

Jaime seemed eager to help his friend by drawing the attention away from her, “Never have I ever fucked a whore.” Tyrion and Sandor drank, and Sansa felt irrationally jealous.

 _You know he’s had whores… why are you jealous? You’re a Queen! Poor man probably never had anyone truly_ want _to lay with him… except you…_ Sansa suddenly went from annoyed to sad, before realizing everyone was waiting for her to take her turn. She snapped her eyes away from Sandor, who’d been eying her appraisingly, and tried to deflect their suspicions, “Sorry, just wondering what Jaime spends all his father’s gold on if not whores.” They all chuckled as Jaime blushed.

Tyrion rolled his eyes, “Ladies please don’t wet yourselves thinking about how _honorable_ my brother is; the only reason he’s never had a whore is because when you look like _that_ you don’t have to pay for it, women line up for the chance!”

Everyone chuckled but this time it was Brienne who looked bothered. Sansa wanted to give Brienne an opportunity to make herself look less prudish, and had always suspected Brienne preferred the _fairer_ sex, which would only earn her respect at this table, so Sansa chose her statement carefully, “Never have I ever, fucked a _woman_.”

“I’d cut off **_all_** my fingers to see that!” Tyrion exclaimed. Jaime swatted his arm but grinned and drank – as did everyone else – everyone except Brienne.

Slowly their alcohol-addled brains realized what Brienne had involuntarily admitted.

“So you’re… a _maiden_?!” Tyrion gawked.

“Oh shut up! Is it that surprising? A lady is supposed to _save_ her virtue for her husband, and in case you hadn’t noticed, men aren’t ‘ _lining up’_ to marry me!”

Brienne stood as if to leave but surprisingly it was Sandor who grabbed her arm and pulled her down, “Nothing to be ashamed of wench, we’ve all seen our share of loose women parading around as _fair maidens._ It’s refreshing to know a woman who can wield a weapon other than the one between her legs.”

Brienne smiled at him weakly, but his words troubled Sansa. _Is that what he thinks of_ me _? Married thrice and betrothed once. Does he think my marrying Tyrion, Harry, and Ramsay was just out of self-preservation?_

_…But wasn’t it?_

Sansa tried to silence her self-loathing mind but failed. _He already thinks I was an empty-headed girl throwing myself at Joffrey so I could live a fairy tale._

_…But weren’t you?_

Realizing Tormund had spoken, and others had gulped, she snapped to attention, “Beg pardon, what did you say?”

“I said, never have I ever swam in the ocean.”

“Oh, sorry… no I’ve never swam in the ocean.” She noticed Sandor for the second time that night was staring at her with an eyebrow raised.

_Damn him, why does it seem like he always knows what I’m thinking?!_

After a few moments Sandor took his turn, “Right, well before you tell us what you’d cut off for the chance to take a naked dip in the ocean with Lady Sansa, it’s my turn,” Sandor sighed, “Never have I ever… gone fishing.” Tormund and Brienne drank.

Brienne: “Never have I ever owned a pet.” Sansa and Sandor drank.

Tyrion: “Never have I ever fucked under the stars.” Jaime and Tormund drank.

Following his brother’s lead, Jaime said “Never have I ever laid with two women at the same time.” Tormund and Tyrion drank.

The game went on for some time, with much blushing, much laughter, and much refilling of ale from passing-by wenches.

A now quite inebriated Sansa took her turn, “Never have I ever fucked a red head.” Tormund, Sandor, and Tyrion drank, and before anyone had a chance to interject Tormund grinned widely, “I can help you remedy that situation, you know.”

Even Sansa couldn’t help but giggle, then hiccup, realizing just how drunk she’d become, “I think I’ll pass, I’m not sure I don’t think I can compete with a she-bear in heat.”

Tyrion laughed so hard ale came through his nose. Everyone held their stomachs as they gasped for air, unable to stop their peals of laughter. Even Sandor couldn’t hold in his amusement.

As they gradually came down from their glee, Tyrion called the game to an end. “Well that, my lords and ladies, seems like a perfect place to conclude our little game – I don’t think we can top that! Now, was anyone keeping score?” Everyone shook their dizzy heads.

“Alright then, as the self-proclaimed master-of-games, I crown Lady Brienne our victor! And myself, sadly, our loser. Though, since the purpose of this game is to be the _drunkest_ then mayhap I’m the winner after all!”

Sansa held her spinning head, “Oh Tyrion, you may have _drunk the most_ , but I fear I am the _most drunk_.” She hiccupped again, “I don’t s-seem to share your _tolerance_.”

Jaime laughed and slurred his own words, “Don’t feel bad, Lady Sansa, no one s-shares _his_ tolerance!”

Tormund was quite entertained by the spectacle, “You Southerners can’t hold your drink. I can’t believe you got drunk off this piss!” He swung around his horn of ale, sloshing the liquid onto his sleeve, “One sip of our fermented yak’s milk and you’d all be on your arses! Now I’m going to go find someplace to warm my cock.”

With that he sauntered off on wobbly legs, clearly more intoxicated than he’d claimed. Sandor called after him, “Do make sure to use the right end of the bear!”

They all laughed again, even Brienne who looked genuinely affronted by the crude exchange, and the obscene gesture Tormund threw back at him in response.

Sandor rose next, “I believe we’ve corrupted our young queen enough for one night. Come my lady, I’ll escort you to your chambers.” He helped her to stand on shaky legs.

Ever courteous, Sansa bid her companions good night before addressing Tyrion, “Thank you for the entertainment, my lord. I shan’t forget this evening, though Gods know I’ll try!”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Walking back to the main keep after their _game_ , Sansa leaned heavily against Sandor’s arm. He noticed several men and women grinning at the display, clearly gladdened to see their grim queen looking so carefree. Derik Cassel was among them, but a trace of envy flashed in his eyes.

_Good for the bastard._

As Sandor half-carried Sansa up the stairs, she poked him in the chest, “Why aren’t _you_ drunk?”

“I’m drunk girl, I just have a lot of practice hiding it.”

She seemed pleased by his response, “Good, if you weren’t drunk, I’d order you to guzzle a whole wineskin just for the principle of it!”

He laughed, “If that’s the worst punishment you can think of then I see I’ve chosen the right queen.”

They had arrived at Sansa’s bedchamber door, but Sansa stilled his hand on the knob and looked into his eyes. “Am I?” she asked.

“Are you what?” he looked at her quizzically.

“Am I your queen?”

So accustomed to Cersei’s habit of extracting flattery from her subjects, Sandor initially thought the little bird was fishing for a compliment, but a look in her big green eyes proved him wrong.

_She actually doubts herself. This woman who’s done the unimaginable, who’s bested her enemies with only her wit and her courage, actually doesn’t think she’s worthy of being called queen._

Sansa’s eyes lowered in disappointment at his silence.

_Say something, you fucking half-wit!_

“No, you’re not my queen... I only follow you around waiting to cut down any man who looks at you the wrong way. I only spend my entire day waiting for opportunities to serve you, hoping you’ll prove me useful by giving me some command…”

_That isn’t enough, tell her how you feel!_

“I’m only certain that you’re the greatest lady who ever graced this bloody continent. I’m only certain that for thousands of years every little girl, high-born or low, will dream about being Queen _Sansa Stark_ of Winterfell, the fairest, bravest, smartest queen who ever lived.”

Her glassy eyes never broke his gaze, but he found the attention unbearable, so he gently turned her toward the door and led her through. Once inside, she walked unsteadily to her bedside table and took a long drink of water from the cup that sat there. Sandor wasn’t sure what to do. It didn’t seem proper to linger in her bedchamber, but he was genuinely concerned the little bird would hurt herself in her drunken state. She made the decision for him as she removed her fur shawl and went to sit at one of the two cushioned chairs near her hearth. “Will you sit with me Sandor? If I lay abed now, I fear I’ll be sick. I don’t have _much_ experience being drunk, but enough to know the benefit of staying _upright._ ”

He shuffled on his feet for a moment before removing his own heavy cloak and taking the offered chair, “Aye, I’ll stay for a little while, not keen on laying my ugly head down, either.”

“Why must you always s-speak like that?”

“Like what?”

“Calling yourself _ugly!_ ”

“Need I remind you: a dog never lies?”

“Not to his master, but apparently to himself!” Her tone sounded accusatory, but her face still looked content.

He sighed, “You’re not the only one with a mirror, little bird,” he gestured his thumb over his shoulder to the standing mirror in the corner before noticing it was once again turned around so only the wooden backboard could be seen. He considered mocking her, saying he’d expect someone so pretty to spend all day staring at her own reflection, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to risk saying anything that would ruin the otherwise enjoyable evening.

Sansa sighed in surrender, “Fair enough, Sandor. I’m too drunk to argue.” She slowly lowered herself to the floor and, kneeling in front of the hearth, poked the logs to resuscitate the dying flames.

She sat back but didn’t return to the chair, seemingly too drunk to raise herself up. After a moment of silence a grin spread across her face. Her eyes widened in excitement, “I know what we’ll do! This is _per-_ fect!” She casually placed one of the cast iron instruments into the flames. Sandor noted it was the one that came to a flat rectangle at the end for pushing or pulling embers into a pile.

She rose shakily and clasped her hands together in delight. Sandor couldn’t imagine what made her so giddy, but he felt his own mouth curl to see her this way.

Sansa slapped her forehead as if having an epiphany that should have been obvious to her, “Ugh! I’ve been wanting to do this my- _self_ for some time.” She hiccupped, reminding Sandor that she was still quite drunk, as did her slurred speech and over-pronunciation of certain words “I know it’s s-silly, but I could never muster the courage to do it, but now that I’m so _drunk_... I thought about asking Theon but, well, he’s s-still a bit _delicate_ , and I fear it would set back his _progresss_.”

_What the fuck is she chattering about? Theon’s progress in what?_

“I realize the i-rony in asking this of you, of all _people_ , but I just… oh, Gods, is it wrong for me to take advantage of the fact that I know you’d do _an-eee-thing_ for me?”

His impatience got the better of him and he blurted out, “What are you asking of me, little bird? You’re making no sense!”

“I know!! I just know you’ll _refuse_ if I don’t _ex-splain_ first…” She paused and pressed her hands together, clearly looking for another angle, “It will only take a few seconds, and I know you won’t like it _one_ _bit_ , but it would mean so _much_ to me.”

“Look, whatever you ask of me I’ll do, assuming you’re not asking me to stick my cock down a badger hole, so will you just ask already?!”

Sansa giggled at his words then nodded vigorously, “You’re right, you’re right.” She looked awkwardly around the room for a moment, before looking down at her feet. She took a step toward Sandor and lifted the front of her dress. It was the same dress Sandor had seen her wear most days: long in the back and shorter in the front, revealing her leather-clad legs.

Sandor sat still, dumbfounded, but only moved to stop her when she began unlacing her breeches. She swatted his hand away and said, “Not _that!”_

She folded down the left side of her loosened waist band. Sandor slowly lowered his gaze from her face to the pale hip in front of him. He blinked as he stared at the raised pink and white flesh in the shape of the Bolton sigil – the flayed man.

Sansa swayed on drunken legs as she stared at Sandor, searching for his reaction. He slowly turned his face toward the hearth and the metal instrument she had placed there moments ago.

He shot up so quickly his chair fell over and Sansa fell back into her own. “NO!”

“Sandor—"

“ _NO!_ Are you fucking _MAD_? Was it not enough PAIN the first time around?! You want ME to hurt you now, too?” His voice was near shouting as he paced back and forth, running his hands through his long black hair.

She spoke calmly but firmly, “Sandor, you of all people know what it’s like to bear something… some _mark_ that angers you every time you have to look at it...”

“Might be I do, but I also know how much that fucking hurts. You’d need more than a few horns of ale to dull that pain!”

“Alright. You’re right. I only _asked_ , you know I would never force you to do it, not that I could…”

Suddenly a dam Sandor didn’t know had built up inside him burst, “It’s not just that, little bird, it’s… it’s… it’s all buggered up! You show me this, this _branding_ on your flesh, and think it won’t anger me?!”

“Why are you angry at _me?!”_

“Not at _you_ , at him… at that greasy fucking bastard! At all the greasy, cock-sucking bastards that ever hurt you!”

Sansa moved to comfort him, but he stepped back, waving her away. “ _And_ at you, too! You take me into your service, you let me shield your back, you let me into your bloody _bed_ , into your, your _body!_ Yet you tell me so little of your past. Leave me to wonder what horrors you faced. I want to comfort you, to _help_ you! Gods, I’ve never wanted to comfort anyone in my miserable life, but I want to do that for _you_ … and yet you won’t let me in, or you do for a moment and then push me out like I’ve done something wrong. You know my whole story – one of two people in the entire world who I’ve told, and the only _living_ person who knows. Yet I know nothing of your ordeal, nothing except what I’ve heard in passing from _other_ people, which may not even be true!”

Tears had formed in her eyes, but he gave her no opportunity to speak, “What of this ‘ _Harry the Heir’ –_ the first husband you _supposedly_ killed? What of Littlefinger, that slimy fucker? And Ramsay? I see now a _sampling_ of his work, and it’s enough to make me want to follow him through all Seven Hells and slice him to a million fucking pieces!”

He paused again, panting, before continuing, “I mean what the fuck is this? What am I to you?”

Sansa remained silent, head downturned and staring at the few tears that laid on the wood floor in front of her. Sandor suddenly felt guilty. He took her hands in his, but she did not lift her head.

“Look, I know I sound like a bloody green boy who’s fallen in love with the first wench to throw him a smile… and bugger me, maybe that’s a more accurate description of myself than I’d care to admit, but I need to know what this is. I won’t be mad Sansa, I promise. If those nights, and all the other little moments we’ve shared, if they were just you… _scratching an itch_ , or easing your loneliness, just say so! Because if **_this_** goes any further, I’ll be ruined.” He snorted pitifully, “…might be I already am.”

He had promised not to get angry, but her continued silence and avoidance of his eyes had his blood rising once more, though he was careful not to let it show. “Right,” he dropped her hands, “I guess I’ve got my answer, then. Can’t say I’m surprised by it… You tell me nothing, you don’t trust me enough to open up even a little, even though I’ve already laid myself bare to you.”

She finally lifted her head, and it was not the little bird who met his eyes, but the _Ice Queen_ he’d seen so many times, and the title seemed especially appropriate now as her gaze chilled him to the bone.

She spoke clearly and slowly, as if addressing her court, “You think this is about me not _trusting_ you with my _secrets?_ You think I would _use_ you to warm my bed, to ‘ _scratch an itch’?”_

Sandor suddenly felt the need to steel himself as he would before facing a formidable opponent, or, more accurately, the need to surrender before _this_ opponent could throw the first punch, but he didn’t get the chance.

“It seems I was right not to tell you anything, _Sandor_ _Clegane_ , not because you’re untrustworthy, but because you’re _judgmental_. I see the way you look at me, always searching for the stupid little bird to appear. Any opportunity to make yourself feel better by cutting someone else down, that’s what you live for. You walk around angry at the world for judging you, for assuming your character matches your face, yet _you’re_ the one who’s always got to throw the first insult. You were right before, you are a dog, but not because you’re unworthy to be around us _highborn_ you despise so much; no, you’re a frightened dog, always expecting to get kicked, so much so that you snarl and bark at everyone that might stop to feed or pet you. Well, I’ve got news for you, you’ve been the kicker much longer than you’ve been the dog, and you’re too damn blind to realize it!”

Now _her_ blood was rising, _literally_. He saw the veins in her neck and forehead pulsing with each word uttered, and her cool tone gave way to a jagged rasp, “You think I don’t confide in you because I don’t trust you, because I don’t want or need your comfort?! I don’t confide in you because I can’t stand your judgment! I could bear it from anyone else, but not from you!”

Finally he mustered the courage to speak, “Sansa, now you’re being unfair. Mayhap I was that way in King’s Landing, but I’ve not treated you that way here…”

Now it was Sansa whose dam broke, “Why not? I judge myself! I hate myself for everything, why shouldn’t you? Why shouldn’t _any_ of you?!”

“For what? Do you honestly think anyone would _blame_ you for what’s been done to you by others? For things beyond your control?”

“But it _wasn’t_ beyond my control! I deserved every horrible thing that ever happened to me! Not just deserved it, I _chose_ it! My entire life has been one bad choice after another...”

“What the fuck are you—"

“Ever since I was a child! I _chose_ to be cruel to my brother Jon, I made sure he could never forget he was a bastard, and I did it to try to please my lady mother, who’s dead now... If I’d only been kind to him, convinced my mother to do the same, he’d not have fled to the Wall at the first opportunity. He’d have been there with Robb, or here at Winterfell, he might have changed things! He’d be the King in the North and I wouldn’t have to bear this crown that I’m not fit to wear!”

“But Little Bird, you don’t know any of that—”

“It doesn’t matter, that’s just the first of many bad choices… I _chose_ my betrothal to Joffrey, even though my parents advised against it. I _chose_ to lie about Joffrey, which led to Lady being killed and Nymeria being chased away. I chose, no, I _begged_ to stay in that betrothal even when my father wanted to break it and bring Arya and me back home. I _chose_ to run to Cersei when I learned of my father’s ‘ _treason_ ’. I chose to write my brother, begging him to bend the knee, betraying my own family.”

“Little bird, you were just a child, you can’t bl—”

“I **_can_** blame myself! I **_do_** blame myself. And I wasn’t a child. I was ten and six. Old enough to be wed, old enough to bear children, old enough to run my own castle… but you were right back then, I was so damned _stupid,_ so captivated by the idea of having a handsome husband, of being a queen people would _love_!”

Sandor’s stomach lurched at recalling all the times he’d called her a ‘stupid’ little bird, or a ‘silly’ little girl. He wanted to take them all back, seeing now how they’d so warped her self-image.

Her rambling continued, “And let’s not forget how I chose _not_ to leave with you that night. I chose to stay in my gilded cage, in the Hell I knew rather than take a chance for a better life.”

Sandor looked away in shame, thinking he should share Melisandre’s words with Sansa, but the little bird didn’t stop talking.

“So you want to know about my past, Sandor? You want to know what happened to me since leaving King’s Landing? Well I’ll tell you all you need to know, then you can tell me how weak and stupid I was… I _chose_ to leave with Littlefinger, even though all my instincts told me not to trust him. I chose to lie about Aunt Lysa’s death, letting Petyr become Lord of the Vale, giving him even more power to hold over me and everyone else. I _chose_ to wed Harry, a man I didn’t love. I knew marrying him would endanger my cousin Robert, but I did it anyway, because I hoped it _might_ put an end to Littlefinger’s advances. I chose to stay ignorant of everything outside my little world, for fear of hearing unsettling news, so I knew nothing of the Boltons’ role in the massacre of my family. Then after Harry died, I chose to marry one of those Boltons, aware of his reputation but thinking he couldn’t be any worse than Petyr...”

She snorted out a breath, “…and as you’ve surely gathered, I was _very_ wrong.”

Sandor stood speechless, trying to take in everything. He knew the little bird’s logic was flawed: he knew every single one of those _choices_ was not really a choice at all.

“And now here I am, the _Queen in the North_!” she said with sarcastic pride, “Making choices for an entire Kingdom! Like who should die and who should live, what crops we should grow, what vagrants we should accept within our walls, whether we should kneel to the Dragon Queen, and last but not least, how should we defeat this Night King and his army of the dead!”

Her tale concluded, he suddenly noticed how defeated she looked, though also expectant – waiting for his _mocking_ to begin – not just waiting for it but welcoming it like penance.

“Well, to hear you tell it girl, we can lay _all_ our problems at your feet,” he stretched his arms out as if gesturing to the entire world. “Your father and brother surely made no mistakes… and Joffrey was a great, noble king. Petry Baelish didn’t take advantage of you, he just enjoyed the affections of a pretty young lady. And Ramsay, well, he acted no different than any other doting husband would.”

She didn’t appreciate his sarcasm, “You know that’s not what I’m saying…”

“I know what you’re saying. You say you carry at least some of the blame. And I’m saying **_you’re_ _wrong_**. Does a condemned man _really_ have a choice when offered either noose or blade?”

“But the outcome is the same regardless of his choice: he dies, and the rest of us go on living.”

“Fair enough, and in that regard, I’d say he has an advantage over the rest of us: he doesn’t have to ponder the repercussions of his choice. He never has to look back and wonder if he chose wrong.”

“I’m not _wondering_ though, I _know_ …”

Sandor stepped closer, taking her face tenderly in both hands, knowing what he must say to convince her: “No, you don’t know. You _think_ you know, but you don’t... No more than a Kingsguard knows whether he made the right choice by letting an innocent girl be harassed and abused. Mayhap if he had stopped the madness, the girl would’ve been spared her misery.”

A lone tear rolled down Sansa’s cheek to land at his thumb, but she wasn’t ready to yield, “Or mayhap the man would have lost his head for his efforts.”

“Mayhap, but the girl would have known she wasn’t alone. She would know she wasn’t worthless, that there were men out there that would fight for her, would die for her. Mayhap his actions would have given her the strength to fight back, so she would not have to spend another day under the thumb of monsters disguised as men…”

Now he felt exhausted by the effort it took to admit to her the guilt he’d been holding onto for so long. “So you see, Sansa, if you insist on believing all your choices have been wrong, then you must also admit that I made the wrong choice by not defending you all those years ago.”

She searched his eyes for any sign of insincerity but there was none to be found. He knew now that the two of them had more in common than either knew before tonight: both carried heavy scars that had forever changed them, and both carried the even heavier weight of guilt for past choices that neither had wanted to make in the first place.

Sandor felt a sudden lightness, like floating in water. Where a moment ago his chest was filled with angst and despair it now felt pleasantly _empty_. Not empty as in hollow, but empty as in peaceful; empty like waking in the morning and feeling nothing for a few fleeting moments before the worries of the day flood your mind.

Had seconds passed or minutes, he could not say, but with no further hesitation he pressed his lips against hers – not hungrily as they had kissed during their prior encounters, but with the mutual ease that comes when two souls recognize each other for the first time.


	56. Lemon Trees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone learns what happened at the Wall  
> Sandor dreams of a different future for him and the little bird.

**Sansa**

Sansa did not realize how worried she’d been for her brother until she saw his proud form approaching Winterfell’s North Gate, with Ghost running beside his horse. Melisandre rode on his other side, with the entire Night’s Watch behind them, along with Theon’s party that rode north to meet them

She had to contain her desire to run out to meet Jon in the snow. She settled for a tight hug that lasted long enough to make Jon blush in the presence of his men.

“It’s good to see you, sister,” he said politely as he gently broke away from her embrace.

“Come, Jon, you and your men must be freezing. The heavy snows had me so worried for your journey.”

“Indeed the weather was not on our side, but we are used to worse,” Jon smiled weakly at his sister.

The men of the Watch were escorted to the large dining hall which had been repurposed into a communal sleeping space. The officers would stay in the Guest Hall, and Jon stayed in his permanent room in the Family Quarters. Leaving Jon to the rest he clearly needed, Sansa went back into the courtyard. She walked to the lichyard to check in on Jaime but was surprised to hear Sandor’s voice scolding someone up on the northern battlements. Looking up she smiled as she saw Sandor on his back, with Ghost licking his face passionately.

“That’s enough boy, enough!” Sandor’s voice was raised but not intimidating enough to deter the animal, as he was secretly enjoying the beast’s affection.

Sansa casually walked up the stairs, “Ghost, to me.”

Without hesitation the wolf came to her side and sat next to her. Sandor wiped his face with his sleeve as he stood, “My thanks, my lady… I thought it was my job to save you, not the other way around.”

She smiled at him playfully, “Not everyone has the level of authority needed to bring a direwolf to heel.”

“Apparently not,” he muttered, still wiping fur and snow and dirt from his clothes and skin.

Sansa turned to leave, Ghost at her side. As she spoke in the lichyard with Jaime she felt Sandor’s eyes never leave her. Her business complete, she turned to head back to the Great Hall, but allowed herself a glance in Sandor’s direction and a quick smile that was only for him.

\--------------------------------------------------------

With all the Northern vassals plus Jon now at Winterfell, Sansa’s evening meal had to be moved to the private dining hall. Sansa preferred the intimate atmosphere of her solar, but there was naught that could be done. On this particular evening, Jon was recounting to the large group what had happened at Eastwatch by the Sea nearly a moon ago.

“Thanks to our scouts, we knew the army was keeping to the coast, likely planning their attack at Eastwatch. It was tempting to send the entire Watch there to try to make a stand, but I’m glad we didn’t. Our men who survived and made their way to meet with the rest of us told the harrowing tale: The front of the army of wights stopped some 200 yards from the Wall and just stood there for more than a day. We didn’t know what they were waiting for, but it soon became clear. The Night King himself rode Viserion. The dragon spewed what could only be described as _blue fire_ , though the men swear it was a stream of ice, at the Wall itself. They say it took only a half hour for the Wall to crumble into the sea, just as Lady Melisandre envisioned.”

“Sansa knows this, but I sent a raven to Que- to Daenerys Targaryen. I don’t know if it reached her, though I suspect by now if she’d received my message and planned to come to our aid, she would have sent correspondence to Winterfell.”

Sansa nodded, “Until and unless we hear otherwise, we will not plan for Daenerys to answer our call, though I’ve sent another raven in case the one from Castle Black did not make it to Dragonstone.”

Sansa now turned to Tormund, “Lord Tormund, what word from your scouts?”

“As of yesterday afternoon the wight army is just southwest of Last Hearth; we estimate they will reach Winterfell in a fortnight at worst, three sennights at best. The back of the army is roughly one day behind the front, that’s how large it is.”

“And the dragon?”

“It appears to be keeping pace with the army. If I had to guess, I’d say he won’t expose himself and the dragon until the majority of his army is upon us.”

Sansa addressed the Lords and Commanders, “We face an unprecedented threat. It is of utmost imperative that we do not allow the men and women to sense our fear. We cannot afford to have deserters. My lords, summon your hope, or fake it if you must.”

They all nodded in agreement before heading off to find their beds, their loved ones, or both.

\--------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sleep had just taken him after hours of tossing and turning when Sandor heard the sound of his door open. His hand grasped the dagger beneath his pillow out of habit, though he recognized the light footsteps as belonging to the only person he’d gladly let kill him in his sleep, if it would please her.

Without speaking he lifted up the corner of his blanket, and without pause she removed her cloak and climbed into the warmth of his bed wearing only her long-sleeved sleeping gown. She’d done this only once since the night of their argument – the argument that ended in the sweetest kiss Sandor could imagine. They had not lain together again, seemingly she’d had her fill of that for the time being. On the previous night she joined him in bed they just slept. He was content to do so again but would not be disappointed if she wanted more.

Her feet were like ice blocks as they sought his legs. He hissed, “Haven’t you any socks, girl?”

“I don’t like sleeping in socks.”

“Prefer frostbite?”

She tsked him, “They’re not _that_ cold.”

“Then put them on your own damn legs,” he scolded her but truly was willing to let her steal his warmth – or anything else she wanted of him.

She inched closer to lay her head on his right arm, which he immediately bent to bury his fingers in her hair, pulling her head even closer to his chest. She hooked both of her arms under his left arm, forcing the limb to lay over her slender body.

He pulled the blankets over her, “Why are you always so cold, little bird? I thought you northerners would be used to it.”

“Our heat is on the inside, where it’s needed to keep us warm throughout the winter. You’re a southerner, your body sheds its heat to keep you cool during the summer.”

Oddly, it made sense. He took a deep breath, enjoying her scent. She seemed to be almost asleep when he spoke, not caring if he disturbed her, they had so little time left, he feared, “Little bird, it’s not too late, you know.”

“Hmm?” She rubbed her cold nose against his arm, “Not too late for what?”

“To leave this frozen place, together. Be on a ship out of White Harbor… be on the warm sand of Pentos within a fortnight.” He knew she’d never say yes, but he needed to say it, needed to pretend it was possible, even if just for a few minutes.

She seemed to know he needed it, “Mmm… but then I wouldn’t need you to warm my feet.”

“Then I’ll have to find some other way to be useful.”

“Like?”

“Handmaiden, I suppose. I’d have to help you bathe, help you dress and _undress_ , but I’d do it, for you.”

She chuckled, “You’re most generous, Ser-not-a-Ser.” Some more moments of content silence passed before she spoke again, “Would you buy me a little house, Sandor?”

“I’ll buy you a big house, if it please you.”

“Big houses are expensive to maintain; how will we afford that?”

“You’re going to be a dressmaker, remember? The best in all the lands, sell dresses for three times what other merchants ask.”

“So what will you do all day?”

“I suppose I’ll stay home and tend to our big house. Someone needs to clean and cook and tend the gardens, while you’re out earning coin.”

“You know how to cook? And clean? And _garden?”_

“Aye, not everyone grew up in a castle with servants to cook their food, braid their hair, and wipe their arse!”

“Hah! Alright, man-of-many-talents, what can you cook?”

“Rabbit stew, venison stew, vegetable stew… hmm, I guess now that I think about it, you’d better like stew.”

“I do, though isn’t it too hot in Pentos for stew?”

“Might be, hadn’t thought of that… alright, cold meat then, with cheese and vegetables.”

“Then there won’t be much cooking to keep you busy… so what will you grow in our garden?”

_Our garden…._

“Well, strawberries of course, but only if I get to eat them out of your pretty little hands. And lemon trees so I can make you your bloody lemon cakes. Onions, peppers, tomatoes… whatever my little bird wants.”

“I want carrots.”

“Good, it’ll be bait for the rabbits, I’ll shoot them with a bow from our back porch, and then cook them.”

“We’ll have a back porch?”

“Aye, with a roof overhead, so we can watch the rainstorms.”

“Ooh, I love a good thunderstorm! Especially when there is a lot of lightning.”

“Hah! I’d have thought you’d be scared of lightning.”

“No, it’s beautiful. I like the rain too, but only when it’s warm out… so what will our porch look like?”

“Nothing fancy, just a little table and a couple rocking chairs we can get old and fat in.”

“You better not get fat!”

“Me? What about you?”

“Women are beautiful when they’re fat, all big bosom and hips, soft thighs and bellies, you’d try to fatten me up if you had any sense.”

“You’re right, more to squeeze,” Sandor gave her bottom a pinch through her gown, eliciting a squeal.

“I want a spiral staircase, too. And a giant copper tub right in our chambers!”

“Big enough for two?”

“Hmm… if you’re one of the two we’ll need to get it custom-made,” this time she gave him a pinch in the tender flesh on the back of his arm.

“Oh, the lady thinks she’s funny, eh?” He tickled her side, making her squirm to get away but he held her close.

“I yield, I yield!”

He let her go, satisfied enough to have heard the tinkering bells of her laughter.

More moments passed, she gently stroked the back of his arm, soothing the skin she’d just pinched.

“So what say you, little bird? Shall I start packing our things?”

Her smile didn’t fade, but the glee that was behind it was replaced by sadness.

“Good night, Sandor,” she buried her face in his chest once more.

“Good night, little bird.”

\---------------------------------------------------

Sandor awoke before the sun, to the feeling of a tickle inside his nostrils. Coming to consciousness he realized he was inhaling strands of her hair. She lay with her back toward him, her left leg bent out before her, her face buried in her pillow. Even under the blanket the curve of her hip made his cock immediately stand at attention.

He leaned over her body and took her earlobe between his teeth. Through her sleepiness she swatted at his face as if he were nothing but a pesky bug, “Too early,” was all she mumbled as she buried her face deeper in her pillows.

“Never too early. You can go back to sleep when I’m done with you.”

“No, shh… too much talking.”

He smiled to see this side of her, the lazy queen who didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning. If she were his, he’d see to it that she never left the bed until the midday sun shone through her window.

He pulled the hair away from her neck and began planting kisses below and behind her ear, eliciting a moan he knew was involuntary. He smiled, knowing he had her where he wanted her, “Then go back to sleep if you wish, leave me to my musings.”

“Shh… still too much talking.”

_Fine, I needn’t talk to do what I have in mind._

After only a couple minutes of kissing her he felt her start to instinctively press her backside toward his aching groin.

_It’s not about you, dog. It’s about her._

He ran his hand down her body under the blanket, finding the bottom of her gown had ridden up to her knees in her sleep. He trailed a single finger up the back of her thigh all the way to her apex, which he was delighted to find was already drenched in her need. From behind, he teased her with his thick finger, tracing the inside of her lips, occasionally letting it ghost over her pearl or dip ever so slightly in her tight hole. When she looked positively tortured, he dipped his finger deep inside her, and she sucked in a chestful of air at the sudden but welcome invasion.

He continued probing her depths, feeling her tighten around his middle finger. He positioned the neighboring fingers on either side of her nub, stimulating the sensitive flesh with every penetration. His lips never left her neck, kissing her nape, letting his breath tickle her ear. She was desperately pressing herself against his groin, bucking her hips back and forth. He matched her motion with his arm while never stopping the ministrations of his fingers.

He’d never done this to a woman, and if it weren’t for her obvious pleasure, he’d be insecure about whether his touch was effective. He’d always wanted to do this, to make a woman turn to jelly for him using only his hand, the way women could so easily bend men to their will using their mouth. The feeling of power and control he sought was present indeed, as the little bird squirmed wantonly under his touch. When she started whispering his name into her pillow, he could have spent himself right there. He wanted to feel guilty for relishing in the powerful feeling he had, but some part of him knew it was truly she who held the reins, she who permitted this raid on her womanly treasure.

Ripping him from his trance, he felt her small hand reach behind her and grasp at his cock, navigating the laces of his smallclothes with surprising dexterity. He wanted to tell her to stop, tell her this was for her pleasure, not his, but as soon as she squeezed him, he knew resistance was useless. From her angle the strokes were awkward, though still pleasing. Anyway, he suspected the action was to heighten her pleasure, not his, for as soon as she began pumping him against her backside her moans became louder, her hip movements more erratic.

“Sandor, please… please… don’t- don’t stop.”

He did the opposite of stop, he increased his pressure and pace, and the effect was immediate as within seconds he heard her scream into the pillow as her walls pulsed rhythmically around his finger. Her hand had stopped moving, but she squeezed him delightfully hard. After coming down from her ecstasy her grip loosened and she rolled over, pushing his shoulder down so he lay on his back. Without delay she moved to kneel between his legs and took his cock in both her small hands. Not satisfied with her own efforts, she dragged both hands over her own wetness and spread it on his cock before resuming.

“Fuck! Gods, little bird… fuck… fuck…” He was aware of the string of curses exiting his lips but was powerless to stop them, “Yes, fuck… Gods… just like that… yes, fuck!”

She needed no instruction: no ‘faster’ or ‘tighter’, in under a minute he spilled his seed onto his own belly, vaguely aware he should be ashamed for letting his Queen bring him to climax with her delicate hands that were made for writing letters, knitting, and being kissed by lesser lords.

He didn’t let his mind linger, and instead pulled her down next to him, drawing her face against his neck. Breathing successfully calmed, he spoke, “This was supposed to be all for your pleasure, little bird… you didn’t need to do that.”

“That _was_ for my pleasure,” she stated matter-of-factly, and he knew she meant it.

“Well, in that case, anytime I can oblige you…”

She swatted his chest playfully, “Now shh… I mean it this time.”

He fell asleep without caring about the seed drying on his belly, or the risk that they’d be discovered once the sun came up – no, the only thing he cared about was the little bird, already snoring against his chest.


	57. A Happy Dog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick little chapter

**Sandor**

He willed time to slow down – this little remaining time he had before his new home would be turned into the world’s largest graveyard. But despite his efforts, hours turned to days and days to weeks.

Despite the fear lingering in the air above Winterfell, they were possibly the greatest weeks of Sandor Clegane’s life. He and the little bird fell into a rhythm. To his disappointment she had not returned to his bed again – and he dared not pursue hers – but each morning they broke their fast together before parting ways to tend to their respective duties. She had little appetite in the morning, usually just sipping tea, so he felt arrogantly proud that she was setting aside that time for him.

Throughout the day he’d find excuses to seek her out – to ask her opinion when it wasn’t needed or ask a question he already knew the answer to. He’d have been embarrassed by his flimsy pretenses if it weren’t that she was doing the very same thing. Even when neither could find an excuse for direct contact, he could count on seeing her smile at least a half dozen times a day when her tasks brought her within his line of sight.

One afternoon after a long day of drills, Sandor was taking a swig of water from his skin when Beric approached. Sandor spent many of his days with the old Knight as they’d be positioned near each other during the battle.

“What’s got you so happy, friend?” the Knight asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re smiling like a simpleton… what are you thinking about?”

“Wasn’t smiling.”

“I beg to differ, but fair enough if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Truthfully, Sandor wished there was someone he could confide in. He’d never been a braggard – had always let his fists or sword do the talking – but the most beautiful woman in the world had taken a fancy to him, and it was hard to keep the knowledge to himself. If she was anyone but the Queen, he might have told Beric the truth, but for Sansa’s sake he couldn’t risk knowledge of their _affair_ – if that’s what it was – becoming the subject of rumors.

“Perhaps the threat of imminent death has scrambled my brains… better to be a happy fool than a miserable wise man.”

“I thought you were happy being miserable?” Beric chuckled.

“Don’t you have better things to do than wonder about what’s going on in my head?”

“At the moment, no.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment then, to know I’m so _fascinating_ to you.”

Beric laughed, “Sorry, friend, it’s not you specifically. Anytime I notice a sudden _change_ in someone, I can’t help but ponder the cause… just as I’ve noticed in our lovely queen. Something seems to have lifted her spirits these weeks…”

“Aye? Hadn’t noticed… though I suppose she’s got more reason than most to be going a little mad.”

Beric slapped Sandor on the shoulder but didn’t press the matter.

_Fucking nosey cunt_.

Sandor turned his attention back to the training yard and found some slight error to criticize – he needed to create anger to keep the smile from reforming on his crooked mouth.


	58. The Calm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another feast aka excuse for everyone to get drunk.

**Sandor**

_Four nights. Four nights and the fucking corpses will be knocking on the gates._

Tormund’s Wildling scouts delivered the dreadful though not unexpected news the prior evening.

_And apparently all Northmen are as mad as the Wildling, because their first reaction was to plan a feast – another fucking feast._

It would be another ‘feast’ in name only. The food was limited, but the ale and wine were plentiful. Once again Tyrion stressed the importance of not dying with a full wine cellar, and surprisingly every Lord and Lady, including Sansa, agreed with his priorities.

It wasn’t the worst idea, Sandor could admit. They were as prepared as they’d ever be. Milling around Winterfell without distraction would not be good for the men. Idleness before a battle was never good, in Sandor’s experience. Too much pent-up energy and men would burn out after only a few minutes of swinging a sword.

So, three nights before they’d meet their fates, every man and woman left in Winterfell gathered in the main courtyard or in one of the many halls. The Hunter’s Gate was open, as their numbers were so great that many camped outside the wall, sitting around several bonfires.

Sansa was gracious as ever, even as some of Lord Flint’s men were less than respectful of their queen _._ Jon explained to Sandor that the Flints, who lived in the mountains near the Wall, had kneeled to Sansa but had more in common with Wildlings than _civil_ men.

Sandor kept a close eye on his little bird after he saw her drink her third cup of spiced wine. To anyone else she would look stone sober, but he spent enough time watching her to notice the signs of her inebriation. She smiled a bit more than usual, laughed when she’d normally have only giggled, and allowed people to stand a bit closer when they spoke to her. Ordinarily she seemed to keep an invisible perimeter around her person, but tonight she didn’t take a step back when one of the men or Lords approached to engage her in conversation. She was no Cersei, she didn’t get drunk and begin fawning, but neither did she scare them off with her usual icy glare.

While she was speaking with the Mormont sisters, Sandor noticed a very drunk Thoros approach her with the Wildling woman Sandor had come to know as Val. “Apologies, my ladies, but the brave men of the Night’s Watch are demanding some musical entertainment, and will accept no half-rate minstrel, they are calling for the Queen in the North!”

Sansa shook her head, “I’m sorry to disappoint them, but I’ve sung all the songs I know… they’ll have to find some other form of entertainment, though I prefer not find out what that might be!”

Sandor didn’t realize how drunk he himself was until he intruded upon the conversation, “Come on, my lady, I know you have other songs to sing…”

Sansa glared at him in disbelief.

_Oh fuck, dog. You’ve done it now!_

But instead of the scolding he was prepared to receive, she only shook her head, “I am not singing songs of my own creation to a crowd!”

Thoros practically spit out his wine at his words, “My lady! You cannot let me go to my likely death without hearing such sweet words and melodies born of your own lovely mind.”

“You’ll have to survive then, because I’m not nearly drunk enough for that.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I can fix that!” Thoros pushed his wineskin into her hands. Sansa covered her eyes in humiliation, but the Mormont sisters, Thoros, Val, and Sandor prodded her. By now Jon, Sam, Tyrion, Jaime, and several other men had gathered around them.

“Sing us a song!” they began to chant and did not stop until Sansa threw up her arms in surrender.

Taking a long swig from the wineskin she mumbled, “I’m going to regret this.”

Jaime continued to goad her, “Come on, Lady Sansa, public humiliation is good for the soul, and willingness to subject oneself to it is an indication of a truly great ruler!”

A cacophony of drunken voices continued to encourage her, Sansa turned to Sandor and mouthed, “I hate you”, though her eyes said otherwise.

Turning back to the crowd she shouted defiantly, “Fine! Just remember, you all asked for this!” She drank from the wineskin as she headed back to the Family Quarters.

Thoros called after her, “Where are you going?”

Without turning back she shouted and swung the wineskin overhead, “If I’m going to do this, I’m doing it right!”

Sandor knew what she was going to retrieve. He turned to Thoros, “Oh, you’re in for a treat!”

…

Several minutes later a rather large crowd had gathered in the courtyard, watching Sansa tune her mandolin. Jon immediately recognized the instrument, “I can’t believe you still have that!”

“Have it? It’s the reason I’m still sane… sort of…” Sansa answered shamelessly. Clearly her sobriety had further declined since leaving to retrieve her instrument.

“Alright, if you don’t like what you’re about to hear, you can blame the loud mouths of Thoros of Myr and Sandor Clegane.”

“Aye,” Sandor shouted, “And if you enjoy it, you can thank us as well.” He earned chuckles from the group. He surprised himself by willingly calling everyone’s attention to him and realized that sometime in the past few moons he’d found a level of comfort around these hearty Northmen that he’d never achieved in his southern homeland.

“Well, since Thoros is the reason you’re all being subjected to this, I’ll start with a song that was inspired by the man himself.”

Thoros grabbed his heart and gave a flamboyant bow.

Sansa began thumbing the tune and Sandor was surprised to hear something that was quite upbeat, unlike the songs she had played for him in private.

> _Last night as I slept_
> 
> _I dreamt I met a friendly face_
> 
> _I walked with him awhile, and we talked the day away_
> 
> _When questioned on his views_
> 
> _On the crux of life's philosophies_
> 
> _He had but these clear and simple words to say_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Any which way the wind may be blowing_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Where streams of whiskey are flowing_
> 
> _I have cursed, bled and sworn_
> 
> _Stood way atop the frozen wall_
> 
> _Life has often tried to stretch me_
> 
> _But the rope was always slack_
> 
> _And now that I've a pile_
> 
> _I'll go down to the Drunken Dog_
> 
> _I'll walk in on my feet_
> 
> _But I'll leave there on my back_
> 
> _Because I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Any which way the wind may be blowing_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Where streams of whiskey are flowing_
> 
> _Oh the words that he spoke_
> 
> _Seemed the wisest of philosophies_
> 
> _There's nothing ever gained_
> 
> _By a wet thing called a tear_
> 
> _When the world gets too dark_
> 
> _And I need the light inside of me_
> 
> _I'll walk into an inn_
> 
> _And drink fifteen horns of beer_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Any which way the wind may be blowing_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Where streams of whiskey are flowing_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Any which way the wind may be blowing_
> 
> _I am going, I am going_
> 
> _Where streams of whiskey are flowing_
> 
> _Where streams of whiskey are flowing_

Her normally sweet smooth voice was replaced by a gravellier, less refined tone that perfectly matched the melody and meaning of the song. By the second chorus everyone was joining in the song, men slapping their thighs to keep the rhythm, women locking arms and twirling around in circles.

When she was done, Thoros threw his arms around Sansa, lifting her at least a foot off the ground, “I love this fucking queen!!!” he shouted, and laughter filled the winter air.

Sansa herself couldn’t contain her smile, and she chanced a glance at Sandor who mouthed, “You’re welcome.”

The queen should have known better than to think she was done. The night was young and the chants for another song echoed throughout the courtyard. Sandor got close enough to encourage her once again waning confidence, “You said you have a song about Joffrey…”

Her eyes widened but she nodded, “It’ll do.”

The crowd quieted once as she prepared for the next song. “This one isn’t as lively, I’m afraid, for its inspiration isn’t quite so cheerful as our Thoros.

She took a breath and began strumming a simpler and slower melody.

> _Well you've got your diamonds_
> 
> _And you’ve got your pretty clothes_
> 
> _Now you’ve got yourself a kingdom_
> 
> _And you let everybody know_
> 
> _But don't play with me, ‘cause you're playing with fire_
> 
> _Your mother she's a lion_
> 
> _And she's got a golden roar_
> 
> _And your father was the great stag_
> 
> _Who was bested by a boar_
> 
> _But don't play with me, ‘cause you're playing with fire_
> 
> _Now your father's met the Stranger_
> 
> _And he took with him your claim_
> 
> _‘Cause his brothers have come knocking_
> 
> _For their chance to play the game_
> 
> _So don't play with me, ‘cause you're playing with fire_
> 
> _Now you’ve got your armies_
> 
> _And you will get some others_
> 
> _But you’d better watch your step, boy_
> 
> _Or start crying for your mother_
> 
> _So don't play with me, ‘cause you're playing with fire_
> 
> _So don't play with me, ‘cause you're playing with fire_

Once again, the crowd sang along with the chilling one-line chorus: the threat directed at the now-deceased Joffrey Baratheon. Jaime and Tyrion looked uncertain whether it would be more disrespectful to sing along or not and settled for some foot tapping.

The crowd demanded another song, but Sansa promised it would come after a rest and a drink. She joked that she needed to refill her _liquid courage. S_ he stood talking to Sandor and Jon who continued to ply her with wine but gasped when a large arm wrapped around her waist from behind and hoisted her up. For the second time tonight another man had lifted the little bird up in a show of affection, and Sandor was surprised not to be bothered by it. If anything, he felt proud that the little bird had earned the respect and admiration, and even affection, of such coarse men – men who did not give praise lightly. Sandor noted the entire castle was filled with men and women who seemed to have nothing but respect for their queen, and yet she never seemed to stop trying to earn what she’d already obtained.

Tormund set her down and forced a serious look into his countenance, “Red Wolf, why do you write songs for the dead King and the drunk priest, but not for your best friend Tormund?”

Sansa laughed and said in mock pride, “An artist never knows where inspiration will strike!”

He was not amused.

“Alright, Tormund, as it happens there is a song that I didn’t write with you in mind, but I think of you whenever I sing it.”

His eyes brightened, “Really?”

“Mm-hmm, it captures your outlook on life. Your fearlessness of the unknown.”

Without hesitation he dragged Sansa back over to the crowd, “Your queen has another song,” his voice boomed, “this one is about my fearlessness!” The Wildlings in the crowd cheered and hooted, though a few mocked Tormund playfully

Sansa shook her head, “I’m going to be hoarse tomorrow, I hope you all know that.”

The song she began strumming was another fast and upbeat melody. Like Thoros’ song it reminded Sandor of the bawdy melodies that were frequent in taverns and brothels.

> _If I should fall from grace with Gods_
> 
> _Where no maester can relieve me_
> 
> _If I'm buried 'neath the sod_
> 
> _Then the Seven won't receive me_
> 
> _Let me go, boys_
> 
> _Let me go, boys_
> 
> _Let me go down in the mud_
> 
> _Where the rivers all run dry_
> 
> _This land was always ours_
> 
> _It was the proud land of our fathers_
> 
> _It belongs to us and them_
> 
> _Not to any of the others_
> 
> _Let them go, boys_
> 
> _Let them go, boys_
> 
> _Let them go down in the mud_
> 
> _Where the rivers all run dry_
> 
> _Bury me at sea_
> 
> _Where no murdered ghost can haunt me_
> 
> _If I rock upon the waves_
> 
> _No corpse shall lie upon me_
> 
> _Set me free, boys_
> 
> _Set me free, boys_
> 
> _Let me go down in the mud_
> 
> _Where the rivers all run dry_
> 
> _If I should fall from grace with Gods_
> 
> _Where no maester can relieve me_
> 
> _If I'm buried 'neath the sod_
> 
> _Then the Seven won't receive me_
> 
> _Let me go, boys_
> 
> _Let me go, boys_
> 
> _Let me go down in the mud_
> 
> _Where the rivers all run dry_

More than any other song this one demonstrated Sansa’s aptitude for her instrument. Sandor looked at Jon in surprise and Jon smiled and nodded, understanding his meaning. Sansa was clearly as drunk as her audience as, at one point near the end of the song, she let out a loud hoot – and everyone hooted back. When the song was done the Wildlings howled at the moon to demonstrate their approval for the she-wolf. Sandor couldn’t help but laugh at the blushing little bird.

Taking another break, Derik, Jaime, Tyrion and others approached her, all expressing their surprise at her songs and mandolin-playing. She clearly didn’t like the praise but accepted it graciously enough.

“Another song!” several drunken voices began to chant once again. Sansa shook her head.

Tyrion tried to change her mind, “Come on, Lady Sansa, surely you have at least one other song in that talented head of yours… you can’t deny your people on the eve of battle.”

“It’s not yet the eve of battle, my lord, and I have many songs, but the rest are for me and me only… except…”

“Except?”

“Well there is one I just finished that might be appropriate, though it’s hardly lively.”

“That’s the spirit!” Tyrion lifted his short arms, “Your queen will oblige you one more song!”

As Sansa once again began thumbing the cords, finding her key, humming a melody, someone in the crowd shouted, “Who is this song about, your grace?”

Sansa looked up, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Several scandalized ‘oohs’ filled the air, making Sansa laugh then hiccup. She took a deep breath as if suddenly regretting her decision but was past the point of return.

> _How do you fall in love?  
>  Harder than a wave can hit you  
> How do we fall apart?  
> Faster than a crossbow trigger_
> 
> _Don't you say, don't you say it  
>  Don't say, don't you say it  
> One breath, and it'll just break it  
> So shut your mouth and run me like a river_
> 
> _Shut your mouth just stand and deliver  
>  Holy hands, will they make me a sinner?  
> Like a river, like a river  
> _
> 
> _Shut your mouth and run me like a river  
>  Choke this love 'til the veins start to quiver  
> One last breath 'til the tears start to wither  
> Like a river, like a river  
> Shut your mouth and run me like a river_
> 
> _Tales of an endless heart  
>  Cursed is the fool who's willing  
> Can't change the way we are  
> One kiss away from killing_
> 
> _Don't you say, don't you say it  
>  Don't say, don't you say it  
> One breath, it'll just break it  
> So shut your mouth and run me like a river_
> 
> _Shut your mouth just stand and deliver  
>  Holy hands, will they make me a sinner?  
> Like a river, like a river  
> Shut your mouth and run me like a river  
> Choke this love 'til the veins start to shiver  
> One last breath 'til the tears start to wither  
> Like a river, like a river  
> _
> 
> _Shut your mouth and run me like a river_
> 
> _Like a river, like a river,  
>  Like a river, like a river,  
> Like a river, like a river  
> Shut your mouth and run me like a river  
> _

Sandor was among those stunned speechless by the apparent sexual nature of the song. Even more shocking was that the little bird held his gaze the entire song. She’d sung the song in front of everyone, but it was all for him, he was sure.

He wanted to close the gap between them, throw her over his shoulder and take her to his bed. Hells he’d take her right here if it weren’t for _her_ reputation that must be upheld, he certainly had no such concerns for himself.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one affected by the song’s inuendo. He looked around and saw more than a few drunken lovers enjoying kisses and squeezes, with little regard for prying eyes. Everyone was drunk, and their queen’s uncharacteristic bawdiness had set the tone for the rest of the evening.

Sandor must still have been gawking, for when Jaime approached him the Knight dared to use his golden hand to push up Sandor’s chin.

“Come now, not polite to stare.”

In Sandor’s shock he couldn’t even muster a retort, so Jaime slapped him hard on the back – with his _real_ hand – and left the man to his stupor.

After several minutes the little bird approached, “Are you enjoying the festivities, Sandor?”

“I am, my lady,” he managed to mumble.

“And the entertainment?” she lifted an eyebrow.

“Very much, my lady.” _You sound like a fucking fool!_

“Oh, then I suppose I’ll ask Brienne to see me to my chambers so you can stay up a little longer.”

She went to walk past him, but he caught her wrist, “That won’t be necessary.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

It took all the will power he didn’t know he possessed to not doubt the gift the Gods had bestowed on him. As he stared at the blazing red hair peeking out from beneath piles of fur, Sandor didn’t let himself wonder if this was all an elaborate hoax. He didn’t question what he truly meant to the little bird; he evicted that irksome thought from his mind. He’d have time to find out if he survived the coming days. Instead he allowed himself to bask in the memory from just a few hours earlier, when he walked Sansa to her door, then followed her through. He’d only removed his cloak, and she the same, before he threw himself at her. Lifting her as though she weighed no more than a feather, he carried her to her table and placed her down roughly. He unleashed his manhood quickly before reaching under her skirts to tear away her smallclothes, laces be damned. Their mouths never parted as he pounded himself into her. Hard, needy thrusts that required him to keep a hand on the small of her back to prevent her sliding back and off of his cock. No words were spoken, none of the pleas and dirty words that had marked their previous encounters – only the grunts and pants of two animals, though the bond between them was undoubtedly deeper than a pair of rutting dogs.

_Isn’t this what your song demanded, girl? No declarations of love, only the poetry of our coupling._

She didn’t have time to climax, he'd spent himself within minutes, and was surprised he lasted that long. Even the wine couldn’t temper his excitement, and she seemed not to care. She seemed satisfied by what he’d given her: all of him – Sandor Clegane, the Hound, whatever the fuck she wanted him to be is what he was. And she took it all, gladly.

As he grunted his release their foreheads pressed together – the only communication that needed to pass between them. His semi-hard cock remained inside her as he carried her to her bed, and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

Now hours later he lay beside her sleeping form. He lifted the covers to find she’d at some point undressed and donned a night dress. Sandor wanted to rip it off, threaten to deny her pleasure next time if she was unwilling to bare all of herself to him, but he didn’t. He suspected her previous relations with men made her self-conscious. Perhaps Littlefinger or Ramsay had berated her, made her believe her body was ugly, though Sandor had no fear that was true.

A different fear consumed him now, in the early hours of the morning. A few short months ago if someone had told him he’d perish fighting an army of the dead he’d have welcomed it. _A good death,_ he’d have said. But he was less reckless with his life now that he knew what happiness meant. That feeling that had evaded him for so many years… he used to think spilling blood, getting drunk, and fucking the occasional whore were the greatest pleasures a man could know. The men who spoke of a woman’s love were fools, unaware of how pathetic they sounded – a man should never let the promise of a warm bed and warm cunt dictate his choices and actions.

Yet here he lay, realizing all those years that _he_ was the fool. Now that he’d had a taste of a woman’s affection, he was unwilling to give it up. Like a dog with a bone he’d not let anyone rip away this new source of happiness. He had only one objective for the battle to come: that he and the little bird would survive. He didn’t care one whit about the others – as much as he’d come to respect and even like some of them. If the battle was not going their way, he would fight his way to her then fight their way out of Winterfell. Fight all the way to the harbor, throw them both in a rowboat if there were no ships docked. No, he didn’t know what he meant to Sansa Stark, but he knew she meant everything to him. She would hate him for a while, deny him her sweetness out of spite, but eventually she’d realized he’d done the only logical thing. He’d win back her favor all over again, he’d kiss her feet, buy her that house with the porch and the garden. He’d be a sellsword, earn enough gold to keep her in steady supply of pretty things. She would never want for anything, and once the initial anger wore off, she would realize their new life was so much better than the constant worry and horseshit she had to deal with as Queen in the North.

Sandor had no fear, no worry. He wrapped his arm around the beautiful creature next to him and fell back into a blessed slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credits:  
> "Streams of Whiskey" The Pogues  
> "Play with Fire" The Rolling Stones  
> "If I Should Fall from Grace with God" The Pogues  
> "River" Bishop Briggs
> 
> Remember singing and songwriting has been Sansa's only outlet since she returned to Winterfell to marry Ramsay.


	59. The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Long Night.

**Sansa**

Nothing was going according to plan. Sansa was cursing Melisandre the inaccuracy and incompleteness of her _visions._

> _“I’ve seen the Night King reaching for your arm in the middle of a snow-covered yard. In this vision he is completely unaware of his surroundings, no doubt confident his wights and generals will strike down any attacker. He is solely focused on you.”_

Sansa laughed to herself. She couldn’t get down to the yard unless she jumped into a sea of wights, and the Night King was ignoring her completely, staring only at the entrance to the lichyard, scanning for any threat.

 _Oh, and the ice-breathing dragon, Melisandre left out that_ minor _detail. If some of Jon’s men hadn’t survived Eastwatch we’d have had no idea it was coming._

At least that aspect seemed to be partly under control thanks to their _savior_ – Daenerys Targaryen. A few hours into the battle, if Sansa’s sense of time was accurate, she swooped in and attacked Viserion, sending the Night King plummeting to the ground somewhere near the North Gate.

But from what Sansa could tell, Daenerys’ dragons did little to stem the tide of wights pouring into Winterfell. It was like nothing Sansa could have even imagined, but it was too late to devise a new strategy. She and her protectors were trapped here on the plankways above the lichyard, the structures built explicitly to enact Sansa’s plan – the plan that clearly wasn’t working.

Intent on not being completely useless, Sansa aimed her dragonglass tipped arrows and fired toward the Night King. Each arrow met a mark, just not its intended one. The tall wights surrounding him caught her arrows and perished instantly, but for every fallen wight there was another – or two, or three – streaming in to take its place.

After the twentieth arrow was fired, however, Sansa’s luck would change. She landed an arrow in the Night King’s shoulder and literally leapt for joy – a joy that was short-lived. He didn’t shatter into pieces. He turned in her direction and with no emotion pulled the arrow from his back.

_Melisandre was wrong – again! Dragonglass can’t kill him. It can kill all the others, but not him._

She racked her brain trying to think about every detail she had learned of him over these many moons, but one terrifying notion kept filling her mind: _He is immortal. He is a God. He cannot be killed at all._

The conclusion made her feel weak and empty. She wanted to collapse to her knees and lay down, wait for the wights to finally break through the choke point and kill her. But as she was about to do just that, some of Melisandre’s other words rang in her ears.

> _“Some Children of the Forest drove a dragonglass dagger directly into his heart. Their magic, which is infused in all dragonglass, turned him into the Night King…”_

_That’s it! He can only be killed by a strike to the heart._ About to grab for her arrows she paused with realization: _He is facing away from me. His heart is turned away from me. Even if I’m lucky enough to hit him again, it won’t pierce his ribs and enter his heart._

Sansa looked around her, despondent again. She looked to her brave companions: Theon and Thoros would not last much longer, they’d already been swinging their swords for what felt like an eternity. Occasionally one of the guards would come over to give them some relief, and Sansa herself had killed a few wights that dangled down the interior of the wall, tripped up by the wire, but each time it happened the guard would rush back to his queen, leaving Thoros and Theon alone against the onslaught.

Sansa turned her head back toward the yard and was shocked at the sight: Tormund, Sandor, and Brienne had fought their way, side-by-side, to the entrance of the lichyard, with Jon, Beric, and Jaime at their respective backs. By now they must have assumed Sansa’s plan didn’t work (they were right) and were going to try to take on the Night King and his generals themselves, but they’d have to face the never-ending torrent of Wights to even get the chance.

The White Walkers noticed the new arrivals and drew their swords in preparation, though they remained near the center of the lichyard, neither advancing nor withdrawing. Sansa was horrified at the idea of her most loyal friends having to face the White Walkers – not to mention the hundreds of wights surrounding them. They must already be exhausted from fighting, if Theon and Thoros were any indication of their experience thus far.

In a stroke of clarity, Sansa suddenly realized what she must do, knew the only way to reach the Night King. The peace that comes from the absence of doubt washed over her, and she found herself smiling.

With self-assurance she removed the light metal chainmail from her torso, then methodically unbuttoned her padded leather doublet. She held her dragonglass dagger in one hand while removing her sword belt, letting the shortsword drop to the wood with a clunk. She allowed herself a moment to study the hilt of her dagger – the one Sandor had secretly designed for her and gifted to her just this morning. On one side it bore a snarling direwolf; on the other a beautiful bird in flight.

 _I must be light as a bird_ , she thought, as she unburdened herself of more weight. She removed the leather greaves that protected her shins, leaving only her breeches, tunic, boots, and the leather vambraces which she had a hard time untying without help.

Thoros and Theon must have heard her, but they could not spare even a moment to glance in her direction, the swell of wights was so unrelenting.

_If I fail, they die. And everyone else dies, too._

But that wasn’t completely true – there was a _chance_ that someone else could get close enough to slay the Night King. A very… small… chance…

 _If I fail,_ I _die. That much is certain._

The idea of her death did not frighten her, but the idea of her dying while Sandor lived on threatened to bring a tear to her eye. It was the only thought that could make her hesitate from what she must do, so she buried it. There was nothing to be done, no way to prevent the guilt and anger he would undoubtedly feel should that be her fate.

She took a step closer to Thoros and spoke clearly, “Don’t let him return to a life of hate.”

“What?!” Thoros shouted, turning his head only a split second. But she knew he had heard her words, he just didn’t understand them. Yet.

She walked to the corner of the plankway, where the stairway side met the right side. She knew Thoros and Theon were shouting something to her, but their voices were formless – sounds drowned out by the clamoring of swords and the pounding of her heart. Taking a few deep breaths she again surveyed the lichyard below. She needed to take this moment: inches would be the difference between life and death. The Night King and his generals were still facing the entrance where Sandor and company fought incessantly but gained no ground through the throng of wights.

_Gods help me, just this once, I won’t ask for anything again._

Holding the dagger tightly in her hand she took one more breath then ran full speed down the right plankway, in the direction of the entrance. As she was nearly midway down its length she leapt up to the wide railing in stride, then leapt again, pushing off the railing as hard as her legs could. Her height from the ground enabled her to cover a good distance. _I’m going to make it,_ she thought as her legs pedaled through the dark air. At the last moment the Night King turned to face her, seemingly sensing her proximity, but she saw not his face, only his chest…

…

…

Sansa was kneeling on the snowy ground, confused.

_What happened?_

_Where did he go?_

_Where am I?_

The air around her was filled with beautiful, shimmering crystals that seemed to catch and multiply every bit of moonlight. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. She reached out and let it fall lightly against her fingers. A euphoria filled her heart and mind.

_I died. I’m in heaven. Everything is fine._

_But if I died that means I failed, and everyone I know will likely die._

_But it matters not, they’ll join me in this beautiful place!_

Sansa was so happy she laughed, and it hurt to laugh but she could not stop herself. She was absolutely gleeful.

Suddenly she heard noise in the distance. It was far away but she realized it was the sound of many voices cheering.

_That must be my family! Robb, mother, father – everyone! They’re calling out to greet me. All the heavens are cheering for me. I think I hear them chanting my name!_

Now one voice sounded closer, “Little bird, look at me!”

_Sandor is here? He must have died, too. I should be sad but I’m not, I’m so happy he’s here with me!_

Other voices joined his.

“Sansa!”

“My lady…”

“Red Wolf!”

The crystals had all floated to the ground and Sansa could now see faces: Jon, Tormund, Sandor, Jaime, Brienne, Beric. With despair she realized she was _not_ in heaven but in Winterfell’s lichyard. This knowledge made her want to cry until she realized it meant her plan was successful – somehow she killed the Night King.

She lifted her right hand in front of her face; it was still clenching her dagger. She laughed again, and this time it hurt even more, so much that she wanted to vomit. Maybe she _had_ vomited, because her lips felt wet.

Through fits of giggles she managed to utter, “I thought I died!” She looked at Sandor, but he did not share her amusement, he actually looked – horrified. _He must be in shock; he can’t believe it’s over._

Continuing to laugh Sansa gripped at her chest with her left hand. _Why am I so wet? Is that from the snow?_

Pulling her hand away she studied it. It was covered in what looked like ink. _No, that can’t be right. Why would I have ink on my clothes? This doesn’t make any sense._

A sharp pain tore through her again, though she hadn’t been laughing.

Realization dawned on her as she heard Brienne shouting for a maester. Jaime was running away, full speed. Sandor moved to wrap her in his arms, but Sansa felt herself fall backward as if her very skeleton was made of jelly. She stared at the dark sky above her and marveled at how the stars looked so similar to the floating crystals she’d seen before.

_Those crystals were the White Walkers, shattered to a million pieces._

Her brain suddenly recalled an image: her pale hand, grasped tightly around the hilt of her dagger, driving into the Night King’s chest… And another image: a long blade entering her own chest just right of center.

 _How could I have forgotten that?_ She laughed at her own silliness, but this time no laughter came out, only a warm thick liquid that tasted metallic.

_I am dying, after all, but I did it. I can rest now. This is as it should be._

Sandor knelt above her, one hand pressed desperately against her chest, the other cradling her neck as she coughed and gasped for air, but with every inhale she only took in the thick liquid – _my_ _blood._ The panic took her as she fought for breath that would not come.

His eyes were filled with terror and he was muttering words she could not discern. Somewhere nearby, she was sure, wildfire was burning on the Blackwater. The night was tinted green. She lifted her hand, the one that had only recently dropped her dagger, and cradled his burnt cheek. She felt a wetness there that wasn’t blood, and then the world went dark.


	60. Nothing

**Sansa**

_Who knew_ nothing _could be so utterly blissful? Yet here it is, wrapping me in pure comfort. Swaddling me in a blanket. Seeping into my skin. Filling my lungs with every breath…_

_But no, that’s not right… I have no skin, I have no lungs. I am the nothing. But once I was something, wasn’t I?_

_And it’s not nothing --- it’s everything._

_Or everyone…?_

_I know they’re here. How do I find them, how do I speak to them?_

**_We can hear you._ **

_Mother?! Father?! Is that you?_

**_We are everyone._ **

_Where are you?_

**_Here. Everywhere._ **

She would have asked where ‘here’ is, but she knew the answer. Just as a person wakes in the morning knowing they’re in their own bed without needing to look at the room around her, she knew where she was without being told, and without looking around, for there was nothing to look upon and no eyes with which to see.

_I can feel you; can you feel me?_

**_Yes, because we are you._ **

The place was so wonderful, though that word was shamefully inadequate. Hours passed, or was it years? … It mattered not, there was no time because there was no age. The silence was ecstasy. The darkness was comfort. The absence was bliss – absence of pain, absence of want, absence of grief…

**_We’ve been waiting._ **

_I wanted to come sooner! I wanted to come to you, but I thought I needed to be_ there _. I wanted to make you proud._

**_Proud? There is no pride._ **

_I know that now, I didn’t know it would be like this._

**_It is not like anything._ **

_I know! It is so different. So perfectly different from the other place._

**_Yes. We forget about that place. We forget how it is there, until someone new comes._ **

_Do we stay here forever?_

**_Here? Forever? Yes… There is no elsewhere. There is no after._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter I was most nervous about posting so far. Kinda hard to imagine an afterlife and even harder to put it into words. Sorry if it falls miserably short.


	61. Declaration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV for part of this chapter

**Thoros**

It was over so quickly their swords continued to slice and thrust at foes that were not there. Theon shouted, the little Queen jumped, and then it was over.

Everyone else must have been as stunned as he because for several seconds – maybe even a minute, he heard nothing. Then he heard cheers and shouts all around him – the celebration of thousands of men – or perhaps only hundreds – how many had survived this nightmare?

He looked down to the lichyard below, but where moments ago it was filled with the White Walkers and their hoard of corpse soldiers, now only a few familiar figures stood seemingly sharing his shock.

The queen was kneeling. Sandor and Jon knelt with her. _The girl must be as shocked as anyone!_

Theon looked at him and smiled, and Thoros realized he’d never seen the young man smile before. He was missing teeth, and his lips curled unevenly as if the muscles had gone dormant, but Thoros was happy to see the expression, nonetheless.

But the reverie would not last. Suddenly he heard panicked voices, Brienne was calling for a maester. Jaime was running as if the Stranger himself was giving chase… and the little Queen was on her back.

Theon and Thoros raced down the steps to join their companions, and instantly saw the source of their panic. Sansa was laying on the cold ground, head cradled in one of Sandor’s large hands, while his other, blood-soaked hand, was pressed to her chest. The snow around her was painted red. She was choking and coughing, with each failed gasp for air she was sucking in only blood, then sputtering it up and out onto her own face and Sandor’s. Jon was clenching her hand to his chest, begging his sister to hold on, to stay with him. Tormund and Brienne had dropped to their knees as well but did not speak. Beric stood watching a few feet away, with a queer look on his face.

She was trying to speak but it was impossible. Sandor was mumbling to her but Thoros could not make out his words – if they even were words. He had pulled her head up trying desperately to help her expel the blood but Thoros knew it was no use. It would only prolong her suffering. Beric finally spoke, “Let her go, boy. It’s a bad way to go.” If Sandor heard him, he showed no signs, though Jon looked up at the Knight with a look of horror.

Sansa’s hand unclenched from the dagger she was still holding, which Thoros had not noticed until that moment. The same hand rose slowly to Sandor’s cheek – the one that was nearly melted off years ago – and she cupped it weakly.

_It’s almost over._

And the big man broke. “No, no! Little bird, NO!!!”

But her eyelids fell shut, and the coughing stopped. Sandor just stared for some moments. Then he shook her, willing life back into her bones, but she was limp. With one hand around her neck and one around her waist he pulled her to his chest and held her so tightly that if she were still alive, she’d be suffocating again.

“No, no, no, no. NOOOO!!!!!” His booming voice echoed through the yard.

Brienne broke. Tormund broke. They both began sobbing, and the redhead wrapped an arm around the woman, trying to comfort her as well as himself. Jon kneeled, staring into the ground in disbelief. Theon said nothing and looked completely void of any thought or feeling. Beric moved to put a hand on Sandor’s back but thought better of it.

Soon Jaime ran back into the lichyard with Maester Damon, and behind them other men and women started piling in, each wearing a look of either sadness, shock, or anger. Many sunk to their knees, others held a hand to their mouth, but all were silent. The silence grew like a vine, gradually choking out the sounds of glee that had filled the air above Winterfell just minutes ago. Their happiness turned to ash, and within moments the only sound that could be heard were the anguished sobs of Sandor Clegane, clinging desperately to his dead queen.

\------------------------------------------------

It took at least ten minutes for Sandor’s sobs to go silent, replaced by a look of cold hard rage. He had placed her body gently on the ground and knelt only a few moments before standing and circling the lichyard, hands balled into tight fists, no doubt looking for something to kill. Finding no enemy at which to direct his rage, he created one. His eyes fell upon Theon and he clutched the man up by his armor, half pushing-half carrying him until his back was against the inner wall of the lichyard. He slammed him against it hard, and then again, “You let her JUMP? Your job was to protect her, not to stand by while she threw herself into a pit of wights! You useless FUCK!”

Theon did not fight back or defend himself, seemingly welcoming the abuse.

“You told me… you told all of us… you told _her brother…_ you VOWED to protect her!”

Thoros knew the blame could just as easily have been directed at himself, but the bitterness behind it had been building for some time. Sandor was raging at Theon for sacking Winterfell, for being the reason Sansa lost her brothers, for failing to protect her from Ramsay.

Still Theon was silent. Everyone else seemed to either share Sandor’s opinion or not want to be the one to pull the large man off.

 _This is what her words meant – ‘don’t let him return to a life of hate’ – she was talking about_ him… But now was not the time to share the Queen’s final words.

Thoros finally approached, “Sandor… listen to me,” Sandor kept his rabid eyes fixed on Theon. “Sandor, it’s not the boy’s fault. We were overrun up there. If we stopped swinging our swords for a split second, we’d have been killed instantly – as would she, and the guards. We both shouted at her to stop but she knew what she was doing. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but she knew what she was risking, and she knew who she was risking it for. She wanted to save her people and she did...”

Sandor’s head slowly turned in Thoros’ direction. He was eerily calm, though Thoros knew it would not last. “Of course she _knew._ Of course she wanted to _save_ her people. All she ever thinks of is other people, people who aren’t worthy of her concern, much less her _life!”_

Just then Lady Melisandre entered the yard, shouldering her way through the throng of still-stunned onlookers. Her eyes went wide upon seeing Sansa’s body. A hand went to her mouth as she shook her head in disbelief, “This is not right. This is not how it is supposed to be…”

Her presence gave Sandor a new place to direct his wrath, “You! You and your bloody visions!” He mocked her words from the day she arrived at Castle Black, _“They’ll be standing in a snowy yard, he’ll see nothing but her.”_ You made it sound like he would stand there and _let_ her drive her dagger into his chest… or better yet, be so oblivious to the rest of us that one of _us_ could do it for her!” 

Tears pricked Melisandre’s eyes, which Thoros knew was uncommon. She ignored Sandor and just kept shaking her head, still staring at Sansa’s lifeless form. Finally her eyes rose to look directly at Thoros, “This wasn’t supposed to happen. The Lord of Light showed me her future… She has a role to play in the wars to come.”

Tormund stood abruptly and spoke, “What wars?”

Thoros ignored him, “My lady, you know as well as I do that he shows us what we _need_ to see. Often, it’s the truth, but other times… He must have showed you her surviving so you’d give her – and the rest of us – the confidence that her plan would work. Which it did, though I realize at great cost.”

“No, no… it was not like that it. It was so… _clear_. If you asked me then what _one_ vision I was most certain to be true, it would have been that Sansa Stark would survive this night. The North will need her. The _realm_ will need her!”

Jon, who’d been still as a statue since his sister’s eyes closed for good, was rising now, holding her body in his arms. Without speaking he walked toward the entrance of the lichyard. Brienne and Jaime followed, then Tormund, then Sandor and Theon. Like a funeral procession the throng of soldiers parted to let through the body of their queen and her most loyal retainers. Beric, Melisandre, and Thoros hesitated before following several yards back.

It was Beric who broke the silence, speaking lowly, “Can you not do something?”

It was unclear whether he was speaking to Thoros or Melisandre, though it was the former who answered, “I could do it with _you_ because the Lord of Light made it so – he gifted me the ability to save you so you could fulfill your cause.”

Beric shook his head, “So you keep telling me, though it’s a cause I’m still unaware of…”

\-------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

The maester’s chamber was not designed to accommodate such a crowd. In the center of the room lay Sansa Stark’s lifeless body on the examination table. Brienne and Jon occupied the sole chairs in the room, while Sandor, Tormund, Thoros, Theon, Jaime, and Tyrion held up the walls. Melisandre and Beric stood side-by-side, addressing those around them.

“So you’re saying you can bring her back? From _death_?” Jon was too skeptical to look hopeful.

A glimmer of hope brightened Sandor’s eyes, “Yes... Yes! I’ve seen it done! When I killed Beric in a trial by combat Thoros brought him back. What are you waiting for?!”

Melisandre looked pensively at Thoros, “I’ve never done it, though I know in theory how – and Thoros is _unsure_ it’s the right course of action.”

“What the fuck is there to be unsure about? She’s your bloody queen, bring her back!” Sandor yelled.

“It isn’t that simple… the Lord of Light showed me that saving Beric was my purpose… the Lord gifted Beric the power to be reborn and gifted me the power to see his will done. He has not done so with Lady Sansa.”

Beric turned to Melisandre, “Maybe he _has_ gifted her… isn’t that possible?”

Thoros only stared at Melisandre, seemingly having a silent conversation with her. Tyrion did not miss it, “There is something else, isn’t there? Something you’re not saying...”

Thoros hesitated, “The Lord of Light has shown me no sign that this will work, nor that it is what should be done. Lady Melisandre disagrees, and I trust her, but…”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows, “But…?”

“But maybe she doesn’t want to be brought back! Maybe she doesn’t _deserve_ to be brought back… to this life… to this world.”

Brienne literally gasped, “How can you say that?”

“I know you all care about her deeply, I care about her, too. She’s a good woman, a good lady, a good queen… but what would _she_ want?”

Sandor answered the rhetorical question, “She’d want to _live_. She’d want to come back to her people, her family.”

“What family?! I’m sorry Jon, but even you know that you’re a small substitute for everyone she’s lost… let her rest now… let her stay in the Heavens with her family.”

Brienne spoke again, “ _We’re_ her family now! We care about her, we love her. It may not be the family she was born to, but we’re the family she chose, mustn’t that count for something?”

“It’s not just _that_ , Lady Brienne. Do I really need to say it? The girl is _suffering_ – or _was_ suffering. We’ve all heard her screams at night. We’ve heard bits and pieces of what she’s gone through, Lady Melisandre you eluded to knowing her struggles, speak true – is it anything _anyone_ should have to live with, much less someone so tender-hearted?!”

Melisandre shook her head, “It is not for me to share her story, and if hers was the only life on the line I’d likely agree with you Thoros, but it is not. The Lord of Light showed me her role in the wars to come…”

“So you keep saying, but again, you know as well as I that he shows us what we need to see,” Thoros insisted.

Tormund, “And you still haven’t told us, what wars? Don’t we have a right to know?!”

Melisandre sighed, “You will see soon enough, my lord, I cannot give you the details you seek, I only know there are battles to be waged.”

Sandor was pinching the bridge of his nose, “This is madness. Who are you to decide if her life is worth living?”

“I’m not _deciding,_ I’m accepting the decision the LORD has made for her!”

“Well maybe that fucker’s wrong! Did you ever think of that? What kind of God would let me live, let _him_ live, or _him,”_ he pointed at Theon then Jaime, “but not _her.”_

Theon spoke, “He’s right.”

Sandor threw his hands up, “Thank you!”

“No, _Thoros_ is right. If we truly care about her, we should leave her in peace. You don’t know what she’s been through, what she’s lost...”

Jon and Sandor shook their heads. “Fuck this,” Sandor pointed his chin at Melisandre, “You said you know how to do it, so do it. You don’t need this bald cocksucker to help.”

Beric nodded his head, though spoke less harshly, “Yes, can it really hurt to _try?”_

Thoros spoke gently but firmly, “Sandor, I know you think it is the right thing to do, but you’re not thinking of her. You’re thinking of yourself. You want her brought back because you love her.”

Everyone’s heads snapped up in concert. They all had seen Sandor’s anguish out in the lichyard, not to mention all the various indications of his affection for Sansa, but no one had ever dared call him on the true nature and extent of his feeling for her.

Every instinct told Sandor to deny it. To admit love was to admit vulnerability. To admit love of _this_ woman was to admit being fool enough to fall for someone so outside his reach in every way… Yes they had _been_ with each other. And yes, it meant everything to Sandor. But he would never be the one she chose, even if she could. Whatever feelings she had toward him – friend, confidante, protector, bed-warmer – they all fell short of his feelings for her.

_Didn’t they?_

And yet, as his mind formulated excuses for his seemingly amorous behavior – proof that he wasn’t _in love_ with Sansa Stark – a small voice told him not to lie… If there was some chance that his declaration could sway Thoros, didn’t he owe it to Sansa to try?

_Tell them how you feel. Tell them you love her._

_‘Love’? Is that really what this is? That tiny little word can’t possibly define what I feel…_

They were all waiting for Sandor to speak, and he finally did…

“ _Love?”_ The word sounded foreign on his tongue. _Have I ever said that word out loud? Maybe when I was a child, to my sister or father. Maybe I once said I ‘love’ wine, or chicken, or the feeling of cutting a man open in battle…_

He tried the word out again, _“Love?”_

_No, that can’t be it…_

“No, I don’t _love_ her… that’s not strong enough a word.”

At the completion of his sentence several of them looked shocked.

“I _worship_ her. She’s the only God I’ve ever known. My chest aches in her presence, but I get no relief in her absence. She is the _thing_ that makes me believe this world may be more than a giant shite hole designed to torture us until our dying day. And yet she herself _is_ torture – a torture I willingly submit myself to…”

“If your Lord of Light doesn’t know this world is a better place with her in it, then I don’t trust his judgment, and neither should you. If I could carve out my heart right now and give it to her I’d do it and hope that there’d be a brief overlapping moment in which both of us lived, so I could share the same air with her one last time, see her green eyes one last time. She is a true Lady, a true Queen… a true _Goddess_.”

He sighed, exhausted by the confession of emotions he was only now fully realizing.

He walked to the table and stroked a thumb down her cheek, “And if none of you knows it, then, for once, I feel like the wisest man in the room.”

When Sandor looked around, he saw tears filling every set of eyes. Jon walked to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. And for one of the few times in his life, Sandor accepted the gesture of comradery.

Beric spoke again, clearing his throat of the emotion that was choking it, “Thoros, Theon, you say our lady deserves peace, and I understand why you say it, but perhaps you’re looking at it wrong. Perhaps she deserves another chance – a chance to live a happy life. Death is waiting for us all, if we’ve chosen wrong for her, it will hardly be a permanent mistake.”

Jaime nodded, “You said you don’t even know if it will work. Why not try it? Leave her fate in the Lord you seem to trust so implicitly, instead of waiting for some _sign_ which may never come…”

At that moment a forceful scratching was heard at the door. As if expecting some wight, several of the men drew their swords, but were relieved to hear Samwell’s voice asking for entry.

“Come in, Sam,” Jon answered.

When the door opened Ghost bolted in and went straight to Sansa’s side, ignoring everyone else in the room. The direwolf whimpered and licked at her hand as if trying to rouse her from sleep.

“I’m sorry Jon, but he was crazed trying to get out of his cage. I was afraid he’d break the gate.”

Jon smiled, “It’s alright, Sam, I think he’s trying to tell us something.”

All eyes turned to Thoros, who closed his eyes… and nodded in surrender.

…

“My lords, would you please leave us for a moment so that Lady Brienne and I may prepare our queen’s body? I’ll call you back when it’s time. If you feel idle while waiting, I suggest you pray.”

The men went into the neighboring room where several chairs afforded more of them a place to sit. Sandor took advantage, feeling completely drained. Jon, Tyrion, Thoros, Beric, and Tormund also found chairs while Jaime and Theon sat on the large windowsill.

Jon looked to Sandor, “Clegane, does my sister share your _feelings_?”

_I’m tired of talking._

“It matters not.”

“It matters a great deal. If this works…”, Jon looked up at the ceiling, forcing unshed tears back into his eyes, “Gods, I’m afraid to even get my hopes up, but if it works, she deserves to be loved. She deserves a man who will honor her and cherish her. Despite our past differences I cannot deny that you seem to be such a man.”

Sandor rubbed his forehead and sighed, “I would gladly love, honor, and cherish your sister, but it isn’t up to me. I can only promise that whatever she needs of me I will give her, gladly, even if it falls short of what I’d care to offer.”

Jon nodded, “I think, and it surprises me to say this, but I think she shares at least some of your… _affection_. You’re a miserable old bloke, but you’ve got a certain honor about you. I can see why, after all the _men_ she’s known, she would value honor above all else.”

Tormund shrugged, “Except maybe his big cock.” Jon and Sandor scowled, Jaime and Tyrion smirked.

“Not the right time, Tormund,” Jaime chided through his smirk.

After several minutes of silence passed, they were startled by the sound of the door swinging open. Brienne entered, face a dark shade of red. She seemed to be trying to hold something in but was unsuccessful. Without speaking she threw her fist hard into the door, resulting in a loud crack. The thick wood bore a dent where it met her fist, though Sandor was certain it was her bones that had made the cracking noise. Tears filled her eyes, but they were not from the pain. She kicked a small table and sent it flying across the room. Jaime ran to her side, “What is it? She’s still going to try, isn’t she?”

Brienne nodded, causing them all to exhale a sigh of relief, but then the big woman started rambling. “I shouldn’t have given up so easily. I should have stayed in the Vale to look for her, I never should have trusted that slimy weasel, Littlefinger. If only I had found her! If I’d only tried harder…” She began crying for true, and Jaime wrapped her in his arms, pulling the taller woman’s head down to his shoulder.

Sandor and Jon exchanged worried glances. Melisandre appeared in the doorway, looking somber, “We are ready.”

Re-entering the dimly lit room, at first Sandor did not notice anything unusual. Ghost still sat at the side of the table. Sansa’s body lay naked but for two linen cloths covering her modesty. The women had apparently cleansed her skin, as her face and chest were devoid of any blood. Her hair was fanned out around her, seemingly having been brushed to a lustrous sheen. She looked rather peaceful, Sandor thought… until he stepped closer and took in the visage that had caused Brienne’s outburst: countless scars of assorted shapes and sizes littered Sansa’s limbs and torso. Sandor stared some moments, convinced his eyes were deceiving him. Slowly he turned to look at Theon, but the boy was staring down at the floor. Jon ran to a side table and retched into a chamber pot; Sandor would have done the same had his stomach not turned to iron long ago.

_Fucking cunt bastard. I swear I’ll find you in whatever Hell you’re rotting in._

Mercifully, Melisandre did not give them time to dwell on the horrific sight before them. She asked Beric for his dagger, which he handed to her without looking. She held a cup in front of Sandor. “Your blood, my lord. Blood of any who love this woman,” she addressed the group, “to remind our lady what she has left behind, what waits for her back in this world. Sandor held his hand over the cup and paused only a moment to look at the fresh scar from the blood pact he’d made with Sansa just two moons ago, though it felt like an eternity. He sliced open his palm and watched the blood drip into the cup.

He handed the dagger to Jon, who did the same before turning to see who else would step forward. Brienne was next, though her right hand was broken, so Jaime made the cut for her. He pondered the blade a moment before doing the same to his own left hand. Theon stepped forward reluctantly and added his blood to the cup. Tyrion declined, “I care deeply for this woman, but I’m not sure there is _love_ between us. I’ll not pollute the sanctity of yours.”

Tormund was last to add his blood, shrugging as he did so, “Hard not to love her.”

Next Melisandre cut off a lock of Sansa’s hair and placed it in a small dish she had positioned over a flame. She spoke words Sandor did not understand – Old Valyrian, he thought. She poured a small amount of the blood mixture into the dish, and a puff of smoke inexplicably rose out of it. She continued her chant the entire time, in unison with Thoros, who had his right hand placed over Sansa’s heart.

Melisandre lowered the linen enough to expose Sansa’s wound without revealing the entirety of her right breast. Slowly she poured the blood into the wound, using a bunched cloth to prevent the excess from rolling down to Sansa’s neck or belly. She put down the cup and placed her left hand over Thoros’ so they both had their hands over Sansa’s heart. Without breaking her chant she reached her right hand out to Brienne while Thoros offered his left hand to Jon, who did the same to Sandor, who did the same to Beric, then Tyrion, then Theon, then Tormund, then Jaime, ending back at Brienne.

Sandor felt nothing happen, no _magic_ flowed through him as Thoros and Melisandre continued their chant. He noticed Jon, Beric, and Jaime’s lips moving, though they appeared to be saying their own personal prayers. Sandor felt inadequate, never having been one to pray, even during his time on the Quiet Isle, but he felt the need to now.

_Gods, God, Lord of Light, whoever the fuck you are, if you’ve even some small amount of mercy or fairness, bring her back. If you need another soul to take her place you can have mine, for whatever it’s worth. I’ve never asked you for anything, I gave up on thinking you cared one whit about me long ago, but if you’ll not do it for me than do it for everyone else. Do it for her. Even if you don’t do it for me, you’ll have my gratitude. I’ll do whatever I can to serve you, though you’ll have to tell me what that might be. I’ll do whatever I can to serve her, too. I’ll love her if she lets me. I’ll protect her whether she wants it or not. Fuck I’d marry her if she’d be mad enough to have me. Just please, see fit this one time to be kind…_

Their chanting had intensified, but still Sandor saw no change in the little bird. Her scar-covered belly didn’t rise with breath. Her slender fingers didn’t twitch. No color returned to her now blue cheeks.

_What are you waiting for?_

The wolf became restless.

_Does he sense something? Is it working?_

But her body remained still.

_You fucking cunts, do something!_

But they didn’t.

A few more minutes passed before Thoros and Melisandre opened their eyes and exchanged a look. Thoros gingerly lifted Sansa’s hands to cross them just below her breast. In unison, Melisandre and he each took a step back.

“That’s it?” Sandor demanded, “Try again! Do it again, do it as many times as you need.”

Melisandre shook her head, “It is in the Lord’s hands now.”

“No, fuck that… try it again. MAKE HIM bring her back.”

They made no move to comply. Frustrated, Sandor pushed his way to the head of the table and took Sansa’s cheeks in his hand. “Little bird, wake up. You’re not done. You’re a bloody Queen! Your people need you! Your brother needs you! _I_ need you!” He was gently slapping her cheek.

Jon pulled his arm back, “Sandor stop, stop!”

Sandor stepped back and ran his hands through his hair.

“Fuck this!” he stormed out.

One by one the others filed out, as well. With nothing more to be done for their queen, they joined the other survivors in the undesirable task of carting the dead out to the fields and onto the large pyres that would soon be their fiery graves.

\-----------------------------------------

Jon and Sandor worked as a team pulling bodies off of carts to pile them onto the pyres. Under any other circumstances Sandor would have felt guilty about the rough way he was handling the remains, but all his sympathy had been spent on the little bird.

Just as he thought he couldn’t get any angrier the _Dragon Queen_ approached.

“Jon, Sandor… I heard about Lady Sansa. I’m so sorry.” She took Jon’s hands, and the boy let her.

_Don’t let that bitch try to make nice now._

“Sansa and I had our differences of opinion, but she had my respect, I hope you know that.”

Jon only nodded.

“I know it’s little consolation at this time, but I hope you can find peace in knowing your sister – your lady – died for a just cause. She will undoubtedly be remembered as a hero for ages to come.”

“Thank you, your grace.”

Sensing her presence was not entirely welcomed Daenerys nodded respectfully and walked away.

“Lot of good her _respect_ does us now. Maybe if she’d been willing to help to begin with…”

“She had her reasons, Sandor. She made her choice and she will have to carry whatever guilt it may bring…”

“Hah! Guilt? The Night King’s army is defeated, and the North has no Queen to stand up to her. They’ll be bending the knee to her before these pyres burn out, and _she’ll_ be the one everyone calls _hero_ – ‘the woman who flew in on her dragons to save the world!’ – makes a better tale than the woman who saved the world with nothing but a dagger.”

“The North won’t kneel to her.”

“If you believe that, you’re a fool.”

Jon threw his hands up, “Maybe I don’t care who the North kneels to, did that occur to you? Maybe it doesn’t bloody matter! My entire family is dead. There is nothing for me! The Night’s Watch has no reason to exist anymore, and I have no family to return to.”

“Aye, well welcome to the party. I haven’t had a family since I was ten years old, if you could call what I had before that a family. At two and thirty I finally find a purpose in life – a Queen worth following, a woman worth loving, and as if the Gods haven’t been cruel enough they rip her away from me! You think _you_ have no purpose? You’re young, handsome… I know you’ve lost much, and you have my sympathy, but you can start your own family, make new memories.”

“And _you_ can’t? Gods, you are stubborn… or maybe just dense. You think you can’t have a wife, a family, because of your scars? It’s not your scars, it’s your shite personality! Most of the words that pour out of your mouth are insults, directed at yourself when not at others.”

“That so? How do you think I got this way? You think I was I _born_ bitter? Try living with a face like this... no woman ever took the time to look past my scars. None until _her_. If I didn’t know firsthand how bad it fucking hurts, I’d throw myself on one of these pyres; I have a better chance of reuniting with her in some afterlife I don’t even believe in then I do of meeting another woman who has a fraction of her kindness, her sweetness, her honesty!”

Jon looked around, causing Sandor to do the same. A half dozen men had paused their labor to listen to the argument.

Jon forced a chuckle, “I guess we make a pretty pitiful pair, don’t we?”

Sandor waved a hand at the onlookers, “Ah, fuck ‘em.”


	62. The Dark Place

**Sansa**

She could feel their presence – though that wasn’t the right word. She knew her mother was here. Her father, too, and her brothers. She could even feel her direwolf, Lady. Uncles, grandparents… ancestors long gone, who she’d never even met, were here. But among all of them there was one energy that stood out, only one that made her wish she had arms to hold with, eyes to see with, ears to hear with. It was _him_. Her _son._ All the pain she had in that other world was gone. She knew now that her past suffering mattered not. She knew it mattered not that his life was too short, because that other world was harsh and cruel. He was lucky, he’d barely had to know that other place – that place of war and death and hunger and fear. He would never suffer, and she would never be without him again…

**_Sansa._ **

_Sansa? Yes, I was Sansa._

**_They need you._ **

_Who needs me?_

**_The living._ **

_They can’t need me. I’m here._

**_They need you there._ **

_I can’t be_ there _, I’m here. This is forever, there is no end._

**_It will never end. But you’re here too soon…_ **

_No! No! No! No! ..._

\--------------------------------------------------------

_Pain. Cold. Brightness. Pain. Hardness. Pain. Sound. Pain. Pain. Pain._

From the tip of her big toe to the top of her head, there was pain.

_Where did the darkness go? Where am I?_

But no one answered her thoughts as they had in the other place. The dark place.

Something touched her hand, something wet and cold. Then something wet and warm. She turned her head and saw a thing. _Not a thing, a face… a dog’s face. No, a wolf’s! I know this wolf… it is Ghost!_ She lifted her arm to weakly stroke the wolf’s head.

_I have arms, I have a body, I can move it._

Sitting up proved harder than turning her head or raising her arm. She was aware of every muscle that had to work in order to raise her back up off the hard thing she was lying on. Something slipped off her as she rose. A white sheet. _Too white, from the light coming through the window. Too bright. The opposite of the nice, dark place._

She felt her tongue in her mouth, it was dry and painful, and seemed to have its own will as it tried to move. _I can speak here._

She tried saying a word: “Ghost.” It must have worked because the wolf looked at her, though the sound that came from her mouth did not sound right. _How can that little word mean anything to this creature?_

_This place is cold. Not like the dark place, which was neither cold nor warm, just perfect._

There were sounds coming from beyond this place made of walls, this room.

_Why do they have walls?_

The sounds became clearer. They were voices; she recognized words. Some voices were louder, others quieter, but they were all _outside_ this room of walls.

_I can go out there. In this place I use my body to move._

She looked at her legs, the odd things that looked like they didn’t belong to her, but that she could feel every inch of. The feeling was pain. _The dark place was better, there was no_ feeling _._

Gradually her mind began piecing together the evidence: the sounds, the cold, the wolf, the room, the window, the light.

 _I’m in the_ other _place! The place where I was before the dark place. The place that is sad, and cruel, and painful. The place where my family is not – where_ he _is not, where mother and father are not, where my brothers are not…_

It claimed her like a wave: her eyes and face became wet, her chest hurt, her head hurt, this feeling, this horrible feeling. She knew what to call it: _Sadness._

_I don’t want to be sad! I want to go back to the dark place where there is no sadness. I don’t want to be in this place of suffering! Please let me go back!_

Then it came back to her – there was a _reason_ she could not be in the dark place yet. The reason they had spit her back out into this horrible world. There was something she had to do, something she must do before going back to the dark place.

_But what was it? I think it involved snow, or ice?_

_Maybe I’ll find the answers outside this room. I need to get out there._

She spoke to the muscles in her legs, ordering them to hang over the side of the table, then to extend down to the floor. The cold hard floor that felt like needles.

_But I must do it. I must get outside. The sooner I find out what I need to do, the sooner I can do it, then go back to the dark place._

She put her weight onto her legs… and promptly collapsed on the floor.

_You must keep your legs straight! Stand up, you fool!_

She put one hand on the table and one hand on Ghost to pull herself up, this time tensing her legs to stay upright. The pain was searing but she willed her legs to serve their purpose.

_Good, now move them. One at a time._

She took a careful step and didn’t fall. And then another. And then another.

_Wait, it will be colder out there, take the sheet!_

She turned carefully, picked up the sheet and wrapped it around her body. She walked slowly to the large wooden door and used the shiny thing – _the knob_ – to open it. But she was not outside. She was in another place with walls. _A hallway._

_I know this place. This is the maester’s turret! I must go down the stairs to get outside!_

_Stairs?!_

She walked carefully to the stairs then planned her descent. She decided to sit and scoot down the stairs on her bottom. She did not trust her unfamiliar, gangly legs.

After much effort she made it down the stairs and saw a door that had brightness trying to come through it. _Outside_. She opened it slowly, it was heavy with cold air pushing against it. _Wind._

When she stepped outside the noises were louder. She wanted to cover her ears but needed to hold the sheet tightly, it was very cold out here.

 _Shit! More stairs!_ There were stairs to get to the ground, though thankfully only a few. She was about to sit down to take the stairs as she’d done inside but noticed faces staring at her. Somehow, she knew she’d look foolish scooting down the stairs, so she took a breath, grasped the railing, and went to step down with her left foot…

A moment later she was on the cold, hard, wet ground. The sheet had twisted around her and parts of her body were exposed to the cold air. Everything hurt even more than it had inside. She must have fallen down the stairs, and every place her body had made contact with wood or ground was now burning in agony.

_I must have been in the dark place a very long time to become so unaccustomed to the pain of this world._

People were still staring at her. Some men came running over. She recognized their faces… _Maester Damon? And Pod… Podrick?_ They helped her to stand and wrapped the sheet around her tightly.

Sansa looked around her – the place looked different. She knew it was her home in this world – the place called Winterfell. But it was muddier, and parts of buildings had fallen away.

_Hadn’t we just fixed them? What day is this? It must be the day after the battle – the day we took Winterfell from the Boltons!_

But that didn’t seem right. There were other memories she had of this place. _Newer memories? Or older? Or both?_ It was so difficult to think in these terms. There was no _time_ in the dark place – no ‘before’ and ‘after’ – no ‘earlier’ and ‘later’.

Podrick and the maester were staring at her, mouths hanging open. _Why are they looking at me like that?_ Sansa had some vague comprehension that while she was in the dark place, she could not have been here. _So where was I? Where do they think I’ve come from?_

A voice answered, but whether it was hers or someone else’s she did not know: _They thought you were dead. You_ were _dead._

_Dead?_

_Ahh, of course – dead in_ this _world. There is no dead in the dark place._

She became aware that she was being led by Podrick and Maester Damon to the nearby gate – the Hunter’s Gate. Each step pained her as her feet were bare, though neither man seemed worried or even aware of her state of undress. Upon walking through the opened gate she was overwhelmed with the sight before her. Dozens and dozens of large piles – piles of dead bodies – stretched as far as she could see to the right and left. Living men were throwing more bodies on the already full piles.

_Pyres… they’re going to burn the bodies._

_Burn… burn… why does that—_

“Sansa!”

She turned in the direction of the voice and recognized the face that was walking toward her, then running. It was the face of her brother, Jon. He grabbed her and hugged her – the pressure of his body against hers was painful, but she knew he did not mean to hurt her. He kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then the other cheek, then her forehead again. His kisses also hurt, but they were also pleasantly warm. Others started approaching, dropping to their knees as they got close. Some ran over to give her more warm and painful hugs: Jaime, Brienne, Theon, Tormund… Tormund lifted her off the ground as he hugged her. Jaime removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, and the residual warmth from his body was the nicest thing she felt since waking up in this miserable place.

Then she saw someone else, a tall man with the most strange and beautiful face she’d ever seen.

“Sandor?”

The man only stared at her. He looked angry. No – scared. No – _shocked_. _That is the word._

He spoke softly, the words not matching his size, “Little bird?”

_Little bird? I remember that! That’s what this man calls me. He and no one else._

She nodded.

He took a few tentative steps toward her before closing the distance with a few quick strides and then dropping immediately to his knees. He grasped both her small hands in his big ones and covered them with kisses. His kisses began to tickle her, so she moved her hands to his cheeks. He pressed his forehead into her belly and muttered something softly, “Are you really here? Or is this a dream?”

 _A dream? What if this_ is _a dream?_

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

Jaime stepped forward, “If it’s a dream, we’re all having it, which I think proves it is not a dream.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

Three hours later Sansa was sitting in the private dining hall with a cup of steaming broth in her hands, trying to take in everything she’d just been told, while trying to put her own experience into words they’d understand. She had felt she was in the dark place for a very long time, but they told her she was dead less than a day.

After reuniting with her friends just beyond the Hunter’s Gate, Sandor had wasted little time in scooping her up into his strong arms and carrying her straight to her bed chamber. She insisted she wasn’t sleepy, but he said she needed to warm up, she’d been standing outside barefoot wearing nothing but a sheet and was shivering violently. They made a compromise – Sansa agreed to let Brienne help her take a hot bath. Sansa could barely walk much less get in and out of a tub, but she was reluctant to accept Brienne’s help – as Sansa’s recollection gradually came back, she remembered that her body was covered with scars. It didn’t matter in the dark place but here she was embarrassed by them. Brienne sensed her uneasiness and confessed that not only she but several other people – including Jon and Sandor – had seen Sansa’s scars.

Sansa was equal parts mortified and relieved. She didn’t want the pity that would come when people realized the extent of her suffering, but she also was tired of having to guard her past so vigilantly. In a way, their finding out the truth without her having to _speak_ the wretched words was a welcome event. After her initial reaction, however, an inexplicable fear entered her mind: Sandor won’t want me anymore. She shook away the thought; it mattered not – all that mattered was completing whatever task she’d been sent here for so she could return to the dark place.

And yet… something in her was no longer so certain. Seeing her brother, Sandor, Jaime, Brienne, Theon, Tormund… it reminded her this place wasn’t _all_ bad.

After the bath Brienne led her to the private dining hall where the others were waiting, the ones who had greeted her outside, plus Tyrion, Thoros, Beric, and Melisandre. It was overwhelming, but they all wanted to hear from her as she wanted to hear from them. She admitted she did not remember dying or anything that led up to it. She did remember finding out the Wall had fallen, and later receiving Jon and the Night’s Watch. She remembered the start of the battle, standing on the plankways with Theon and Thoros waiting for the dead to come, but after that it was a blur.

Jon filled her in on the details. He said that their forces successfully held off the wights for about two hours before the walls were breached. After that it was a mess, and everyone seemed to have lapses in their memory, for they spent so long fighting a never-ending barrage of wights that they had no time to truly absorb what was happening around them. The greatest threat was the wight-Giants. Sandor managed to take one out with a ballista while Jon and Tormund shielded his back. Young Lyanna Mormont killed the other, but lost her life in the process, as the giant crushed her in his hand the same moment she drove her shortsword into its eye.

For the first two hours of battle the White Walkers hadn’t even been spotted, but then everyone’s worst nightmare materialized. The wight-dragon Viserion screeched its presence in the sky above them, spewing a deadly stream of ice the way living dragons breathed fire. Viserion was being ridden by the Night King himself. Everyone who could manned the ballistas and took aim for the dragon. None hit their target, but their efforts kept the dragon at bay so at least its damage could be minimized. They were running low of the large dragonglass arrows when out of nowhere Daenerys swooped in with both of her dragons and engaged Viserion head-on.

The battle against the wights raged on below while the three dragons and their two masters battled in the sky above. Eventually Viserion was fatally wounded and fell from the sky, landing just outside the North wall. Jon, Tormund, Sandor, Beric, Brienne, and Jaime all saw it happen and tried to fight their way to the North Gate in hopes of finding and killing the Night King. But their progress was slow: it took many minutes of exhausting fighting to gain even a few feet. Daenerys’ dragons were scorching the wights still outside the walls of Winterfell but could not risk taking aim at the ones within. Though slowed by the blinding snow, her dragons were potent, but it barely seemed to make a dent as the wights kept pouring in over the walls.

At this point, Thoros took up the storytelling, explaining how he and Theon fought tirelessly at the chokepoint where the stairs met the plankway above the lichyard, where Sansa was positioned along with two guards. Facing away from the entrance they only knew when the Night King and his generals had entered because Sansa shouted over the commotion to tell them. But for some reason the White Walkers entered the lichyard, walked only about halfway in, and then stopped, turning back around to face the entrance. Their hope that the Night King would expose himself faded as minutes passed and the White Walkers did not move.

“I remember now!” Sansa exclaimed, “I fired arrows at him. Most managed to hit only wights, but eventually one landed in his shoulder, but it did not affect him. He barely even turned to see where the arrow had come from. That’s when I remembered Melisandre’s vision about the Night King being born when the Children of the Forest drove a dragonglass dagger into his heart, so I figured that was how he must be killed – his heart must be pierced. I knew I’d never make it to him any other way than by jumping directly on top of him.”

Theon nodded, “We heard you dropping your armor and shortsword but we couldn’t stop you.”

“Why did you take your armor off?” Sandor asked.

Sansa smiled, “I knew I couldn’t risk landing short. I needed to be light as a bird.”

“Well you sure flew like one, Red Wolf. Or should I say ‘Red Bird’… I saw a flash of red across the sky and next thing the wights were gone and it was just you, kneeling in the middle of the yard.”

Sandor shifted uncomfortably, seemingly reliving the pain of that moment.

Melisandre asked the question they must all have been wondering, “My queen, do you have any recollection of what happened after? After you died?”

Sansa stared into her broth. _How do I explain the dark place to them?_ Spoken words would undoubtedly fall short, but they were all she had, “It was… wonderful. It was bliss.”

“What did it look like?” Beric asked.

“Nothing. There is nothing to see. It is the dark place… at least that’s what I call it in my mind,” she blushed at the simple phrase she used to describe such a divine place.

“What was there? Who was there?” Jon asked

“Nothing was there. It was nothing. And it was everything. It was no one, and everyone.” She knew her words would not make sense to them, but they continued pouring out uncontrollably, “It was knowing without thinking... It was hearing without listening, feeling without touching, seeing without looking. I was there, but I wasn’t, because there is no _there_ , and there was no _me_.”

Everyone exchanged puzzled looks.

“Sansa, was _God_ there, the Lord of Light?” Beric asked desperately.

“ _God?”_ Sansa tried the word out. “Yes, I suppose, but also _no._ It isn’t one thing, one person, one entity. The _everything_ was God. The one voice was God. But the one voice was many voices.”

Sansa rubbed her head, the effort to describe her experience was giving her a headache. Jon took her hand gently, “Sansa, the voices, were any of them…”

He didn’t need to finish his sentence, “Yes, Jon,” she smiled, “they were all with me. Our father, my mother, our brothers…” she could not tell him who else was there, she was not ready to speak of _him_ in this world. But just then she had a realization, “Jon! Arya _wasn’t_ there! Robb, Bran, Rickon, all our Stark and Tully ancestors… but not _Arya!_ Jon, that means she’s in this world… I mean she’s _alive!”_

Jon didn’t share her joy, though he smiled weakly.

“Oh… of course… Bran and Rickon… you didn’t know… I’m sorry Jon, but you must believe me, they are not suffering. The dark place is _wonderful._ There is no suffering there, no sadness. There are faint memories of this world but not any of its pain. None of it matters, Jon! Our suffering here doesn’t matter because this is just one brief part of our existence. When we’re done, we will get to spend eternity in the dark place. Don’t mourn Rickon or Bran, just be happy that there is a chance you’ll get to see Arya again in this world!”

Jon didn’t look fully comforted but smiled a bit more genuinely now, “Thank you, Sansa. That is good news. I’d long ago accepted that I’d never see any of them again but hearing the confirmation – about Bran and Rickon – it became real. But you’re right, it is good news that Arya is alive… somewhere.”

Sansa nodded before asking Melisandre a question of her own, blushing as she did, “Brienne told me you performed some type of… _ritual_ , after I died.”

Melisandre nodded, “We did, though only as vessels for the Lord of Light’s will to be done.”

Sansa tilted her head, “There is no Lord of Light, my lady. I told you. It was not _his_ will, it was the will of everyone… and no one… but I suppose you can continue thinking of it as a _lord_ , if it please you.”

Melisandre glanced at Thoros before continuing, “And you know this everyone-and-no-one’s will for _you_ , my queen?”

“I do. Or I did… what was shared with me in the dark place does not make sense here, in this world. I know it has to do with burning…”

Melisandre seemed relieved, “Burning is the Lord of Light’s preferred way of cleansing…”

Sansa cocked her head again, “You misunderstand, my lady, I am to _stop_ the burning. The ice stops the fire. If I don’t the entire world will burn.” Sandor shifted in his chair. Sansa knew what she was saying would be particularly troubling to him.

Just then a knock sounded at the door, Theon went to answer it. A servant’s voice was heard saying that Queen Daenerys had come to give her wishes to Lady Sansa.

Daenerys entered, smiling respectfully at everyone in the room before standing beside Sansa.

“My lady, I was so gladdened to hear of your… _recovery_. I’ve come to inquire as to your well-being, and to see if there is anything you may need…”

_Her face… her eyes… SHE is the one who will burn the world…_

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

The little bird went pale as she stared at the Dragon Queen. Daenerys’ face went from kind to confused to concerned, and before anyone could stop it, Sansa had lunged at her, grabbing her by the throat with both hands. Jon jumped up and grabbed his sister around the waist, trying to pull her off, but her grip was steel. Jaime wiggled his hand between the two women and literally pried the little bird’s fingers off of Daenerys’ neck, then helped Jon restrain her.

“Let me go! Let me go! She’s the one! She’s the reason I came back! She’s the one who is going to burn the world – she’s going to burn everything; she’s going to burn everyone!”

Daenerys coughed and rubbed at her neck, “She’s insane! Jon your sister has gone _mad_!”

“I’m not the mad one, you are! I’ve seen it, I saw it in your eyes the day I met you! You’re as mad as your father! I knew you were mad when you told us your tale – how you killed your son to save your husband. No mother would do that! Cersei Lannister wouldn’t even do that! You said you sacrificed your babe to save your husband, but you didn’t – you did it to keep him alive because you needed his armies! You killed your son because you wanted to conquer the world! And when you can’t conquer it, you will burn it! I’ve seen it… they showed me!”

Daenerys was shocked speechless, but she’d not have the opportunity to speak anyway as Sansa continued her desperate pleas, “Sandor, Brienne, Jon, help me! Please, we must end it before it begins! Let go of me! I need to stop her.”

Brienne didn’t move but Sandor stepped forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Jon pushed Sansa into Jaime’s arms and drew his own sword, placing himself between Sandor and Daenerys. “Sandor listen to me – she knows not what she says, she’s been through too much, she’s not regained her senses yet. Queen Daenerys came here to save us…”

Sansa was kicking violently, and Beric joined Jaime to help restrain her.

Sandor looked back and forth between the two women; he wanted to follow his queen’s command but after everything she’d just told them, he, too, doubted her sanity at the moment.

“She didn’t come here to save us! She came here for Viserion!” Turning to look at Daenerys she continued, “You were unwilling to help us until you found out about your dragon. You couldn’t bear the idea of your _child_ living as one of those… those _things..._ of being used by the Night King.”

Daenerys had no response.

Her desperate wails were agony to his ears, “Jaime, Sandor, Jon… _Theon, please…_ She’s the reason I had to come back here! She’s the reason I had to leave the dark place… the reason I had to leave my family, my _son!_ Theon _, s_ he’s the reason I had to leave _Ben!_ Theon, _pleeeease!”_

_Her son? Ben?_

Sansa collapsed, only partially upright because Beric and Jaime each held her by an arm. She was sobbing, pleading over and over again. Sandor looked at Theon, who met his eyes with a sadness that confirmed Sansa’s words were true.

Daenerys looked around the room. Taking advantage of everyone’s stunned state she walked backwards slowly, only turning to run as she got to the door. No one followed her, though Brienne looked to be contemplating it. A few minutes later the sound of dragon screeches signaled her departure.

Sansa went limp against Jaime’s chest, sobbing into his cloak. Her weight pulled him down to the floor when Beric let her go. Sandor looked around, wishing desperately there was something around for him to kill.


	63. Ben

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for disturbing content. Not very detailed, and nothing worse than what occurs in books and TV show, but I still feel it necessary to warn you that through a Theon flashback we will finally understand how Ramsay broke Sansa. It's been alluded to many times in the fic.

**Theon**

**_15 months ago_ **

“Breathe Sansa,” Theon begs her.

“Breathe, that’s good, breathe.” He is breathing steadily, in and out, imploring her to do the same.

“No, don’t push yet, I don’t think you’re ready.”

He pushes her gown back down to cover her legs and wipes her brow again.

_I think I am more terrified than she is. The one upside to pain: it vanquishes fear._

But as another stab of pain shoots through her and she screams out, he knows he is the lucky one of the pair. She groans and bears down, squeezing his hand hard.

“Not yet Sansa! Please, I don’t see its head yet. I think I’m supposed to see its head before you push!”

Through gritted teeth she growls, “Why is this taking so long? Something’s not right!”

“It’s normal Sansa, remember how long your mother labored with Bran and Rickon? It was an entire day and night for Bran, and only a bit less for Rickon. It’s only been a few hours for you!”

Another contraction steals her breath, and she squeezes his hand again.

It goes on like this for some hours more before, mercifully, Theon says the words they’ve both been waiting for, “I see the top of its head! Sansa, I think you can push now.”

“I can’t push, Theon, I can’t!”

“You must.”

He doesn’t tell her what is troubling him, it will do no good to worry her now, but there is too much blood. He is no maester, but he has seen pigs and dogs give birth over the years, and there was never this much blood.

“Push now Sansa, push!”

She bears down and pushes with all her might, as he helps her lift her head slightly off the pillow.

_I think I’m supposed to go down there now, to pull it out._

Without dropping her hand he angles himself between her legs, kneeling on the bloodied sheets.

_Too much blood! She needs a maester._

But Ramsay had made it clear no maester would be called. Theon thought back angrily on his words the from night before.

> Ramsay had been having his fun. Theon was, as usual, made to stand in the corner and watch. Theon knew something was wrong when Sansa started begging Ramsay to stop – she learned long ago that such cries and pleas only further ignited Ramsay’s sick lust.
> 
> Ramsay gripped her by her hair, hard, telling her to stop her crying, but suddenly jumped off the bed in disgust.
> 
> “Fucking cunt!” he screamed at her, but she just laid in the bed, cradling her belly in pain. The bed was wet, and Theon knew what it meant: her water had broken, she was going into labor. She wasn’t due for nearly another moon, but it was no wonder she was laboring early – given Ramsay’s constant abuse Theon was only surprised she hadn’t miscarried some time ago.
> 
> “Master, should I fetch the maester?” Theon asked weakly.
> 
> Ramsay looked at him with venom in his eyes, “No, Reek, you will not call the maester. This whore chose to marry beneath herself in Harry the Heir! I care not about his whelp. Let her birth it the way animals do: alone and without complaint!”
> 
> Under any other circumstance Theon wouldn’t dare challenge Ramsay in even the slightest way, but some long-lost sense of brotherly compassion made him speak, ever so meekly, “I care not for the babe, either, Master, but its mother – don’t you need her to keep the North in line? I thought you’d dispose of her only after she gives you your own heir.”
> 
> Ramsay’s eyes went calm, which Theon knew to be more sinister than his rage. “You make a good point; she does serve a purpose. I’ll tell you what – _you_ , Reek, can stay here. Help your lady deliver the brat. Keep her alive, maybe I’ll give you a treat!”
> 
> Theon wanted to object but knew he had already pushed his luck…

There among all the blood, a head is sliding out, and Theon is lost as to what to do next. _Do I catch it? Do I pull it? How hard?_

He doesn’t have to think long, as with her next push the rest of the slippery babe comes out in one surprisingly smooth motion. He stares down at the wrinkly red thing and wants to die. He looks up at Sansa’s face to see her eyes are hooded. She is ghostly pale.

“It’s a boy,” he states, matter-of-factly.

The babe starts crying in Theon’s arms, and Sansa weakly reaches in the direction of the noise. Theon moves to hand the babe to her but just then the lock in the door turns, and Theon’s stomach drops.

_Please don’t kill it! Please God, don’t let him kill it!_

Ramsay enters the room nonchalantly and nods at Sansa’s limp body and bloody sheets, raising his eyebrows, “Well that doesn’t look good,” he states – completely unperturbed by his wife’s hemorrhaging. He grabs Sansa’s cloak off the back of her chair and holds his arms out toward Theon, nodding at the babe, “Bring it here, Reek.”

He doesn’t want to hand the babe to this monster, he wants to run for the door, try to get away, but he knows he’d never get past the guards and even if he did, where would be go with a babe? It would die within hours out in the cold.

Reluctantly he hands over the wailing child, which Ramsay takes with surprising tenderness.

While gently rocking the babe in his arms he turns back to Theon, smiling, “Go get the maester, Reek. And send for a wet nurse.”

Theon is so relieved he wants to cry. Ramsay is sending for the maester to save Sansa, and he would not send for a wet nurse if he planned to kill the child.

As he runs through the castle in search of the maester everything seems to make sense. _Of course he wants the babe alive – as Harrold Hardyng’s trueborn son, he’s a potential heir to the Vale._

A few minutes later Theon is back in Sansa’s room with the maester and Ramsay. The wet nurse had promptly taken the babe away to clean it and nurse it in another room.

After prodding a now unconscious Sansa, the maester speaks, “She has lost much blood, but the bleeding has stopped. This is not uncommon for a woman’s first childbirth. She is young and healthy, should recover fully, though will be weak for at least a sennight.”

“Wonderful news, maester! I trust you’ll see to my wife daily, or more if that’s required.”

“As you wish, my lord, I’ll go check on the babe,” the maester bows his exit.

Theon is flabbergasted by the apparent cheerfulness of Ramsay Bolton. The man is only happy when he is hurting or tormenting someone. A life ended pleases him, not a life born.

“You did well, Reek, you’ve earned your reward. What will it be? A bath? A sweet treat? A new tunic? Name it, Reek!”

The choice is easy, “I want to stay here with my lady until she wakes up. I want to tell her she has a healthy son.”

Ramsay’s ugly grin widens, “What a lucky lady my wife is, to have such a caring friend! You may stay here until she wakes, and when she does, you tell the nurse to bring the babe in here to meet his mother! And let me know, too, so I can give her my blessings!”

Ramsay strides out humming a merry melody, closing the door but leaving it unbarred, which means guards would be posted at the door that night.

Exhausted, Theon lays down on the floor next to Sansa’s bed and promptly falls asleep.

_\------------------------------------------------_

Sansa doesn’t wake until nearly dusk the following day. Theon had been sitting in a chair at her bedside since that morning, only moving to eat the meal a servant brought to him at midday, and to relieve himself in the chamber pot.

Her eyes find him immediately, “Is it alive?”

He smiles at her, “It is. It’s a boy, a healthy boy! Master says to bring him to you right away.” Theon knocked on the door to signal the guards. They open the door and step aside for Theon to pass.

A minute later he returns to Sansa’s room with the nurse in tow. The nurse smiles and hands the babe to Sansa, who already has tears in her eyes, “He’s been sleeping most of the day, hasn’t eaten since midday, he ought to be waking up hungry soon.”

“Hello my son,” Sansa whispers. Theon can tell she is overwhelmed. She kisses the babe’s head then each of his little hands which wrap instinctively around his mother’s thumb.

Indeed, a few minutes after being placed in Sansa’s arms the boy starts wriggling and crying. The nurse helps Sansa lower the front of her gown to expose a swollen breast. The boy latches on with little guidance, causing both women to giggle.

“Aye, he’s a hungry little thing. That’s a good sign – he’ll grow to be big and strong, m’lady.”

Then Theon remembers Ramsay’s request, “I’m supposed to get Master when you’re awake.”

Sansa’s smile falls away, but she nods her assent, knowing it’s unwise to go against Ramsay’s wishes. The only favor Theon can do for her now is to walk very slowly to Ramsay’s chambers, giving Sansa as much time alone with her son as possible.

When the two men enter her room several minutes later Sansa is still nursing the babe. Ramsay walks over and strokes her cheek and Theon can see Sansa struggling not to flinch.

“It’s good to see you well, my wife. You gave me quite the fright, but I see some color has returned to your cheeks.”

“Thank you, husband.”

“And how is the newest addition to our household, other than hungry, of course?” he laughs.

“He looks to be healthy, husband. Thank you for asking.”

“You do look tired though, my lady. The maester did say you’ll need plenty of rest… Nurse!” he shouts out toward the hall. The woman enters again, apparently not having gone far.

The nurse takes the babe from a reluctant Sansa. Ramsay bends to place a gentle kiss atop her head, “Rest again, my sweet. You can visit with your son again on the morrow.”

Seemingly satisfied, Sansa closes her eyes.

“You can stay here again tonight, Reek, if you wish, in case our lady needs assistance in the night.”

“I will, thank you Master. Good night, Master.”

“Good night, Reek.”

_\------------------------------------------------_

The next day Sansa doesn’t sleep as late – only until near midday. She tells Theon she feels a bit ill but asks him only to summon the nurse with her babe.

Once the babe is happily sleeping in her arms Theon realizes he hasn’t been named, “What will you call him, Sansa?” He only calls her by her given name when they are alone.

Her eyes widen and she chuckles, “How silly! I hadn’t even thought of it, I’ve been so worried…” she doesn’t need to finish her sentence.

“Let’s see… what do you look like?” She peers down at the babe and rattles off several names, some Theon knows are Stark or Tully names, others he is not familiar with. Eventually she settles on “Ben” after her uncle Benjen Stark. Theon must admit the boy does favor the Starks with his dark hair. Even as a babe his skin is darker than his mother’s – though few people are fairer than Sansa.

The next two hours Theon sits quietly near the window, peering through the iron bars that run across it. He listens contently to Sansa whispering to her baby, nearly nonstop.

_“You’re the sweetest little baby in the whole world.”_

_“You’re going to be big and strong just like your namesake, Great Uncle Benjen!”_

_“When you’re older I’ll tell you all about your Aunt Arya. I think you have her chin. She was always getting into trouble.”_

_“I love you so much my little Ben, I’ll never let anyone hurt you!”_

Theon dozes off briefly, lulled by the sweet coos of mother and child. When he opens his eyes, he sees Sansa, nuzzling the little babe’s head, breathing deeply of his scent.

Footsteps approach and Sansa’s eyes meet Theon’s with dread. Ramsay strolls into the room, but both Theon and Sansa exhale a sigh of relief at his seemingly jovial spirit.

“I see my lovely wife and stepson are spending some quality time together. How are you today, my dear?”

“I’m better, husband, less tired. Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad to hear it! And it looks like your babe there is as peaceful as can be!”

“He is, husband. He is a good baby, only seems to eat and sleep, I’ve hardly heard him cry.”

Theon could hear the purpose in her words – hoping if Ramsay knew the babe was mild natured he might not harm the child.

“Then he is as docile as his lady mother,” Master strokes the babe’s velvet-soft head, “May I hold him?”

Theon sees a protest form in Sansa’s throat, but she swallows it, “Of course, husband, be sure to support his neck.” She gingerly hands the babe to Ramsay, as if trying to transfer her gentleness to the man.

He takes the still sleeping babe in his arms and wraps his right hand behind the babe’s neck, carefully, “Like this?” Sansa nods in approval.

Still watching from the window Theon barely sees it happen. There is a swift movement and at the same moment Sansa’s smile turns to absolute horror. A scream pierces his ears and in a flash of red Sansa is lunging herself at Ramsay, who does nothing to deter her except laugh, loud and menacingly. A moment later Ramsay is walking out of the room with a limp bundle without giving Theon a single glance.

His mind finally catches up with the events that just transpired. Sansa is screaming. Theon has heard her screams before, many times, but never like this. This noise is pure agony and he covers his ears, but the screaming doesn’t stop. He runs to the locked door and pounds on it, but it doesn’t open. He slides down to sit on the floor, as far away from the screams as he can get. He buries his face between his knees, palms glued to his ears, but the screaming never stops.

…

Now it is dark out, and the screams have turned to gut-wrenching sobs, but still Theon doesn’t move.

…

Now it is light out, and the room is quiet but for the sound of breathing. Theon knocks on the door but again no one responds, no one opens it. His knock has woken her, but he doesn’t look. Can’t look. He stands, face against the door as the screaming starts again. He pounds his forehead against the door, anything to drown out the alternating sounds of screams and sobs. He is dizzy and lays down on the cold, hard floor.

_…_

Sometime later a small voice whimpers, “Theon, please… Theon… Theon…”

_I’m not Theon, I’m Reek. I don’t care about you or your stupid baby. I only care about Master._

“Theon! Theon!” the whimpers are now shouts though the voice is painfully raspy.

_Not Theon, Reek!_

“Theon, Theon!” the sobs continue.

_Not Reek, **Theon**! _

His legs will not stand, so he crawls toward the voice. He wraps his arms around her, holding her wet face tight to his chest until he feels her body go limp in sleep.

_…_

It is still dark when he wakes, and he is alone on the floor next to Sansa’s bed. Panicked, he looks around, but finds Sansa sitting in the chair, rocking back and forth. There is a lantern burning on the table beside her, she must have lit it. Her face is blank. Her eyes are puffy but no longer red. _She stopped crying some time ago._

He stands and walks toward her slowly, but she does not look up at him until he speaks her name, “Sansa?”

“Yes, Theon?” she says. His blood turns cold in his veins.

“Are you… well, Sansa?”

“I’m well, thank you for asking. How are you?”

His head moves slowly up and down in what might resemble a nod, “I am well.”

She rises from the chair, “I didn’t want to wake you, but now that you’re up, I think I’d like to get something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“Y-yes, a little.”

She knocks gently on the door, “Guards, Reek and I are hungry, might we get a late meal sent up?”

No one answers but one set of footsteps can be heard moving down the hall.

A half hour later the guards open the door. One of them brings in a tray with bread, cheese, one wineskin and two glasses.

“I suppose that will do at this hour, thank you.”

The guard looks at Theon, confused by her spirits, then exits.

She sits at the small table where the tray was placed and motions for Theon to join her. _She’s lost her mind, that’s the only explanation!_

Part of him wants to leave her to her blissful madness, but he needs to know, “Sansa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you remember… what h-happened?”

“Are you referring to Ramsay killing my son?”

His mouth drops open, but he nods, even more slowly this time.

Sansa raises a brow, “Of course I remember, it’s rather hard to forget.”

“And you’re not… bothered… anymore?”

She huffs as if the entire conversation is an inconvenience, “Of course I am bothered, but there is naught can be done.”

He picks at the bread in silence, somehow feeling more troubled by her cold calmness than he was by her tormented sobs and screams.

_She’s in shock, that’s what it is. In a few hours, maybe a few days, she’ll start crying again._

But she doesn’t.

_\-----------------------------------------------------_

It’s been nearly three moons since Master killed her son, and Sansa hasn’t cried again since her initial outburst, at least not that Theon has seen. Less than a sennight after it happened, she cut her wrists with a shard from a broken plate. The guards found her and carried her to the maester. Even when she woke from that, she didn’t cry. She didn’t look disappointed in her failure, or remorseful for attempting it in the first place.

Every second of every day since, she’s been calm and distant, and it isn’t good. Ramsay snapping the babe’s neck was the last thing he did that affected her. Since then she has been emotionless, and – judging by her lack of reaction to Ramsay’s abuses – numb.

Ramsay is getting desperate – Theon can see it in his eyes. He knows he can no longer hurt her, no longer inflict pain. His abuses have become more and more violent, but at most he gets a bodily reaction from her – an involuntary jerk or twitch or hiss – never a whimper, never a grunt, never a plea for mercy. Ramsay is losing it. The man who was always so methodical and precise in his cruelty is now… _sloppy_. Most nights he doesn’t even summon Theon to watch. He no longer cares about Theon’s pain, he is singularly obsessed with finding a way to break her; but Theon knows the truth: you can’t break something that’s already broken.

…

Then one night Theon hears a strange noise through the wall that separates his and Sansa’s rooms. He thinks it is a yelp, and in his sleepy state thinks it is Sansa, finally giving Ramsay what he wants. But then he hears Sansa’s grunts, and then a heavy thud on the floor. Then nothing – silence. He tiptoes to the outside of her door but waits, knowing not to disturb Ramsay during his pleasure. He hears drawers opening and closing, fabric rustling, and other small noises he doesn’t recognize. He only knows it’s her making the noise. He knows her sound, and he knows Ramsay’s sound. Only a few minutes after he placed himself outside the door it opens, slowly, from the inside. Standing before him is Sansa, lips and neck stained red with blood, looking placid as ever. He looks down to see her hands are gloved and she holds Ramsay’s dagger in one of them.

Neither speaks for several seconds, until she casually says, “Get dressed.”


	64. Confession and Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more darkness before we reach the light.

**Theon**

Sansa had cried herself to sleep on the floor, drooped against Jaime’s chest while Theon sat behind her, stroking her hair and whispering words of comfort.

Melisandre, Beric, Thoros, and Tormund exited a few minutes after Daenerys. Everyone remaining sat in stunned silence. When Sansa’s sobs had turned to whimpers, then the whimpers to the steady breathing of sleep, Jon looked at Theon, “When?”

Habit made Theon bite his tongue, but he gradually realized there was no point in hiding the truth anymore. He was exhausted by the lying, and even more exhausted by being the only one who knew the truth – the only one who could comfort her, who could share her burden. He fulfilled the role of caretaker to the best of his ability, just as she often did for him. But it was a weight he never felt fit to carry, he himself having been so broken. He was ready to unburden himself and hoped Sansa would forgive him.

“A few months after she married Ramsay.”

Jon looked confused, “Then it wasn’t Ramsay’s child?”

“No, it was Harry’s, though Sansa did not know she was pregnant when she first came to Winterfell.”

Brienne, the only other woman in the room, assumed the logical, “So she miscarried? Or stillborn? Due to the… _trauma_ she endured?”

Theon shook his head but could not speak the words yet. He heard several of them let out small gasps.

Rage was building in Jon’s eyes, “How?”

“Mas- _Ramsay_.”

Jon repeated his one-word question with more conviction, _“How?”_

_Don’t tell them. Don’t speak the awful words out loud. If you speak them, you’ll have to feel it all over again…_

But he had to, they deserved to know, and he needed to cast off the weight.

“He killed the babe, in front of Sansa… And me.” Tears threatened his eyes, but he fought them off.

Tyrion was the only one who could speak after hearing that admission, “But _why?_ The Boltons are – were – cruel, but they weren’t stupid. The son of Harrold Hardyng would have been heir to the Vale and its mighty army, in the event the sickly Lord Robert Arryn should die. Why would Ramsay be foolish enough to kill Harry’s trueborn heir?”

_How do you explain the logic of a madman?_

“Because he needed to kill the wolf.”

Tyrion nodded, thinking he understood, “He felt threatened by a boy with Stark blood, afraid the North would consider that boy the Stark heir before Ramsay’s future sons.”

“No, the babe wasn’t the wolf, Sansa was the wolf.”

Everyone looked confused. _Why is this so hard to explain?_ Theon was unaccustomed to conversing in front of so many people, and never felt like he could accurately express himself.

Sandor rubbed his face, “But he didn’t _kill_ Sansa...”

Theon nodded, “He killed the babe to kill the wolf.” They still looked perplexed; Theon needed to use more literal terms, “You all saw Sansa – you saw what he’d done to her – and there was more – scars you cannot see. But it didn’t break her. Ma- Ramsay knew it, I knew it. She tried to give him what he wanted, but she could not fake it. He wanted to see pure submission, pure fear, but when he looked in her eyes he saw the wolf was still alive…” Theon was exasperated, but pressed on, “He let her have the child just long enough to love it; he was kind, he gave her hope, and then he shattered it.”

Jaime seemed to understand though, “He killed her babe to try to break her emotionally, because none of his physical efforts had succeeded.”

Theon nodded. _Finally._ He thought the conversation would be over, but he was wrong.

Jon spoke quietly, “Did it suffer? My nephew… did he suffer?”

Theon shook his head.

“And did it break her?”

“Yes, but Ramsay didn’t know, only I knew. So he didn’t stop. He just got worse. He got desperate.”

“What do you mean he didn’t know she was broken?” Jon asked.

Theon sighed, “Because she didn’t break normal. She didn’t break like I had. Ramsay wanted to see tears, but she became a wall of iron. He thought it was strength, but I knew it was something else – it was _numbness._ ”

Sandor spoke up with disgust in his tone, “You keep saying you _saw_ , that you saw her suffering, you saw her breaking, you saw her broken…”

The familiar feeling of shame was creeping into Theon’s throat. He swallowed it, “He made me watch… everything.” Theon could not meet anyone’s eyes.

Sandor huffed, “So you were in the room when he… and you did _nothing_ to stop it?”

Theon nodded, tears finally breaking through his eyelids.

Sandor rose but Jon’s words came out faster, “You did _nothing?_ The girl you were raised with as if she were your own sister?! You did nothing to stop it?!”

Theon was trembling, “You don’t understand, it wasn’t me. I wasn’t me. I was Reek.”

Sandor shouted before realizing he was at risk of waking Sansa, “Who the fuck is Reek?”

Theon shook his head, “You won’t understand. Only she understands! But it doesn’t matter. Even if I’d tried to save her, if I’d thought to kill Ramsay, I knew we wouldn’t get past the guards.”

It was Brienne’s turn to lash out “But you did! You went out through the tunnel after _Sansa_ killed Ramsay herself.”

Theon was desperately pleading his case, even though he felt as guilty as they believed him to be, “I didn’t know about the tunnel until that night. Sansa never told me about it. In the beginning she wouldn’t have trusted me, she’d think I’d tell Ma- Ramsay about it, and she would have been right. By the time I started being Theon again, by the time she started to trust me, she was so pregnant that escape would have been impossible. Then afterwards she was weak from the childbirth. And then after that I didn’t get many opportunities; Ramsay stopped bringing me into the room when he was with her. He stopped caring about hurting me, he only wanted to hurt her.”

Theon was panting, it felt like his heart would pound through his chest. Tyrion and Jaime were looking at him with some understanding in their eyes, but Sandor, Jon, and Brienne still stared at him scornfully.

_They don’t know what it was like there._

_Tell them._

_Don’t tell them!_

The first voice won out, eventually. “You need to understand, defying Ramsay would have only gotten Sansa and I hurt even worse. He killed people in horrible ways for the slightest defiance – things no other Lord would even _consider_ defiance.”

They continued staring at him.

_Tell them how he was!_

“A fortnight into their marriage we ate dinner together in this very room! Roose Bolton was away, it was just me, Sansa, Ramsay, and six of his closest _guards_. Sansa already had seen his cruelty but couldn’t fathom the depth of it. The men were drunk, but not Ramsay. He was always sober, always in control. He told the men he had a gift for them; he was going to let them look upon his bride – the most _beautiful_ woman in all the realm, he said. He stripped Sansa down and made her sit at the table with them, naked. She was crying but he didn’t let her leave…”

Sandor turned away, looking out a window.

_Good, let it bother him. Let him know what it was like._

“…He just kept tormenting her, taunting her, while the men laughed, while Ramsay laughed and _mocked_ her. One of the guards couldn’t take it. He told Ramsay, “I think your lady wife is tired, my lord. If it please you, I’ll escort her to her chambers…””

“That was it, that was all he said. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t call Ramsay cruel, he tried to help Sansa without disrespecting Ramsay…”

Theon swallowed dryly, “The next day Ramsay’s hounds ate him alive in the woods, while Sansa and I were made to watch.”

Everyone was quiet, whether pitying the young guard, Lady Sansa, or Theon he knew not. Perhaps all three.

What felt like an eternity passed before Tyrion spoke, “I wasn’t there, so I won’t pretend to know that I would have done any differently than young Theon. I only know that each of us in this room carries our own guilt in regards Lady Sansa. Myself, Jaime, Clegane – we did little to stop the abuse she suffered under my nephew and sister. We all wanted to help, _tried_ to help, each in our own way, but our efforts fell short. Lady Brienne, you told us you feel guilty about not doing more to find Sansa. And Jon, I know it pains you greatly that you weren’t with your family at their darkest hours…”

“But in truth, Clegane, Jaime and I would be without our heads if we had tried any harder. Brienne would be in a Sky Cell in the Eyrie, if not dead. And Jon would have perished alongside his brothers before Sansa ever became Lady Bolton. None of us are in a position to judge Theon for his actions, or inactions. Sansa has forgiven him as she’s forgiven all of us. All that matters now is how we help our Queen going forward.”

Everyone nodded except Clegane, though Tyrion knew his silence was as close to agreement as Tyrion would get.

\----------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

No more words were exchanged, but they all knew a silent pact was formed then and there. All six of them looked upon each other and upon Sansa’s still sleeping form. Without speaking they forgave each other, and themselves, Tyrion hoped, while vowing to do everything possible to protect the broken yet mighty queen they all served – the queen who was as fiercely protective of them as they were of her.

_Seven of us, like the seven faces of the new God._

Tyrion looked around the room, pondering which _God_ each of them embodied. At first, he did so facetiously, but soon realized there was some merit in the metaphor.

_Sansa herself is the mother. She is strong but merciful. She is like a mother to all of us, taking in this beaten-down group of strays and lifting us up the way a mother lifts up her children._

_Brienne could be Warrior or Maiden, though her ferocity is not what truly defines her. It is her honesty, her purity. She is the Maiden indeed, though you’d never know by looking at her._

_That makes Jaime the Warrior. He was born to fight, born with a sword in his hand. After losing his sword hand any other man would find another trade, but Jaime spent agonizing years re-learning his craft, and is almost as potent with one hand as he was with two._

_I suppose I myself am the Crone. I contribute my ideas, my wisdom, my foresight where Jaime contributes his sword._

_Jon Snow is the Smith. He brokered the most unlikely of alliances – between the Free Folk and the Northmen. Where others seek to destroy, he wishes only to create. He convinced the Dragon Queen to come North, tried to form an alliance between Targaryen and Stark, and didn’t give up even after both parties did. Hells, through his Stark blood he’s descended from Bran the Builder, himself._

The last two were less easy to assign. The Stranger and the Father, with only Clegane and Theon remaining. As Tyrion observed the latter, still gently stroking Sansa’s sleeping body, he imagined that Theon had become something of a Father… to Sansa at least. He was the one to comfort her when no one else could. _Though that’s not truly what the Father is. The father is justice and judgment… and yet wasn’t it just Theon who laid all our sins bare? Who made us take ownership of our failings while simultaneously finding us all innocent, because none of us had the power to truly help?_ It felt like a bit of a stretch, but Tyrion thought it fit well enough.

_That makes Clegane the Stranger, and that is rather fitting. The man has dealt death to more men than probably any other soldier alive. Hells, he named his horse ‘Stranger’! The Stranger also represents the unknown, and Sandor himself_ is _the unknown. I never thought him more than a brute, but all that time he had a depth of emotion and even_ honor _that none of us saw. The man who seemed impervious to love and soft things has fallen in love with the most sweet and ladylike woman in the realm._

_The Mother and the Stranger … what a pair that would make! The bringer of life and the bringer of death._ It seemed oddly _right_ to Tyrion, as if somehow together they could bring justice to the world. They balanced each other, he thought. _She is strong on the inside but tender on the outside. He is strong on the outside and is apparently a big puppy dog on the inside._

Tyrion realized too late he was staring at Clegane as he heard the telltale gravelly voice, “Fuck you looking at, Imp?”

Tyrion laughed, knowing Clegane’s insults would never carry the same _bite_ as they had in the past. Puppy bites hurt a bit, but also brought giggles and joy.

“Nothing, friend. Nothing at all.”


	65. The Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends share laughs

**Sandor**

The little bird had been sleeping for hours, completely undisturbed when Sandor took her from Jaime’s arms to carry her all the way to her bed. The group decided she should not be left alone for fear of the state she would wake in. Jon wanted to sit with her first but was clearly grateful when Sandor relieved him after two hours. Despite all the physical and emotional exhaustion of the past few days, Sandor was certain he’d not sleep a wink until Sansa woke up and proved to be safe and sound. So when her small voice pulled him from his slumber, he was startled. The sun was low, peeking in the window, and Sansa was sitting in bed staring at him.

“What did you say little bird?”

“Where is she?”

“Daenerys?”

“Yes.”

“Gone… flew away on her dragons.”

“Oh.”

“You remember it?”

“Do you mean from the dark place or after I came back?”

“Both, I suppose, but I meant after you came back.”

“Yes, I remember Podrick helping me out through the Hunter’s Gate, Brienne helping me bathe and dress, then talking to all of you, telling you about the dark place, then Daenerys came in and I remembered that she was why I was sent back. To stop her. To kill her.”

“Aye, sounds like you remember everything.” He paused and considered his next words, “Do you remember telling us about… about the people, the family members who were in the dark place.”

She turned her head away from him, staring out the window at nothing in particular.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to talk about it.”

“It’s alright, Sandor. It doesn’t bother me like it did before. Now that I know what comes next, I don’t mourn them. I don’t mourn him.”

“So why were you so sad? When you came back, I mean.”

She looked at him curiously, head cocked, “Because I came back.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you look sad, Sandor?”

“I’m not sad, I’m happy you’re back. We all are, I just thought you’d want to come back…”

She stared at him again, still looking confused.

“I mean to say I thought you would be happy to see us, that there would be some of us you’d be glad to come back to.”

“I am… there are. Everything just feels strange here. I was used to the way it was there. Everything here feels so… just _feels._ Pain, cold, hunger, fear, sadness. None of that existed there.”

“I suppose that would be hard to leave behind.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I know I will go there again, someday. Patience has always been one of my better qualities. I was patient in King’s Landing, patient in the Vale, patient with Ramsay.”

“Those are all bad things, little bird. Is that what you think the rest of your time here will be? Not enjoying, just enduring. Is there nothing that will give you joy?”

She cocked her head again.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that? Like I’m not making any sense.” Sandor asked.

“You don’t know.”

“Know what?”

“I apologize, another remnant of the dark place, no speaking, just knowing. I forget you don’t know what I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking, then? Use words, please,” he let out a weak smile.

“That I love you.”

His jaw clenched. He stared back at her, incredulous. _Isn’t that what you wanted? Why are you just sitting there?_

She kept staring at him, no fear, no shame, and most importantly, no deceit in her eyes.

_Say something, tell her how you feel, half the North already knows, tell her!_

She beat him to it, “You don’t have to say it, I know you feel it, too.”

He thought back to the song she’d sung on the eve of battle – she indeed said she didn’t want to hear those words. _Show me, don’t tell me_ … wasn’t that the point? He’d showed her that night, roughly, on a table in her bedchamber. Yet now he was frozen in a chair in the very same room, unmoving. He felt like the rabbit who knows the fox has spotted him: he should run, but he can’t, he will sit right here until she kills him.

_Not a fox though, a wolf._

“You’ve got the right of it,” he mumbled.

_What a fucking bard you’d make._

But she seemed satisfied, or at least not _dissatisfied._

“Would you summon someone to bring me something to eat? Or _us_ , if you’re hungry as well. I feel rather famished.”

“Aye little bird.”

He opened the door and found Theon asleep against the wall like a dog left out in the rain. Sandor nudged him with his toe. He shot up immediately, “Is she awake?”

“Aye, and famished. Can you fetch some food, and perhaps some wine, too?”

Theon ran off without responding, seemingly relieved to be useful.

Sandor returned to Sansa’s bedside. She had propped herself up. Sandor’s hands felt idle, yet he knew not what purpose to give them.

“What hurts?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said everything feels bad – the cold, the pain… where do you hurt, your wound?”

“Yes, but mostly my feet. I fear they’ve all but forgotten how to walk, they’re nothing but pins and needles.”

Sandor sat on the side of her bed and found her feet beneath her covers. They were cold as bricks. He rubbed each one, feeling the blood gradually return to them. A few times she giggled.

“I didn’t know your feet were ticklish.”

“I didn’t either, I don’t think anyone has touched my feet since I was a child.”

“It’s dangerous to let someone know your ticklish spots.”

She smiled, “Then it seems you have me at a disadvantage. I’ll need to find out what parts of you are ticklish.”

“If that’s supposed to scare me, you’ll need to try harder.”

She stared at him, smiling, “Kiss me.”

“That’s definitely not scary.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

“As my lady commands,” he grinned. He leaned in and kissed her, but didn’t want to push her, still leery of the state she was in. He withdrew.

“Again.”

That was all the permission he needed, he kissed her again, but this time did not break away. He grasped both her cheeks as her mouth parted for him like the gates of the Heavens. His lust was shamefully building, his cock clearly not aware of the delicate state she was in. He was thoroughly enjoying the sweet taste of her lips when her hands grabbed his sides, hard, and tickled him mercilessly. He couldn’t contain his laughter; he indeed was ticklish there.

“Oh you play dirty, don’t you?” he attacked her with his hands, finding her feet were hardly the only ticklish place on her body. He tickled her ribs, her belly, and had her squealing in fits of laughter, rolling to her side in a futile attempt to escape his reach. He followed her further onto the bed, unrelenting, and that’s how Theon found them as he walked in with a tray of bread, cheese, boiled eggs, and wine.

Theon stood in the doorway staring, clearly trying to reconcile Sansa’s playful mood with the agonized girl who sat before him only hours ago.

Sandor at first was ashamed at being discovered in this unseemly position before realizing he didn’t give a fuck, “You can leave the tray boy, unless you’re trying to join us.”

Theon’s eyes widened and he placed the tray down abruptly before practically running out of the room. Sansa laughed once again, “You really shouldn’t tease him.”

“Ah, he’ll be alright, boy needs to lighten up some.”

“Hah! Never thought I’d hear _you_ say _those_ words.”

“What? Everyone knows I’m the most lighthearted fool in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Mmm, it seems much _has_ changed while I was gone. Next you’ll tell me that Tyrion has stopped drinking and Jon has stopped sulking.”

“What has Jon stopped?” The man in question entered, confused but seemingly pleased by the state he found his sister in.

“Sulking, I hope. There’s no reason to be so dour. The dead are, well… dead. You’re a trueborn Stark, and your lovely little sister has come back… unless of course you were already looking forward to stepping into my shoes…” She cocked an eyebrow and her brother chuckled.

“You can keep _those_ shoes, sister.”

Sandor chimed in, “I don’t blame you, boy. I’ve smelled the feet they belong to,” Sandor scrunched his nose and waved his hand in front of it, “smell like _death…_ oh, wait…”

Sansa laughed as she swatted him, “My feet smell like winter roses and you know it.”

“Aye, and your shite smells like daisies.”

“No, as a matter of fact it smells like strawberries and honey.”

“Well on _that_ note,” Jon brought the tray over to his sister’s bed, “I assume you ordered this _before_ getting a whiff of her feet.”

“Aye, I better start with the wine,” Sandor poured a cup for Sansa, who seemed too eager to take it, then one for Jon. Theon had only brought two cups, so Sandor dumped the water out of Sansa’s bedside glass and poured himself a cup.

Just as they were raising their cups in a spontaneous toast, a familiar voice sounded from the doorway, “Drinking without me? You know that’s a crime punishable by _death.”_

“Sorry Tyrion, Clegane already beat you to the death joke,” Jon laughed.

“Oh, I missed it?! What was it?”

“Said her feet smelled like death.”

“Ahh, good one.”

Jaime and Brienne had followed Tyrion in, and Theon dared to return seeing the tickle fight was over.

“My lady, I’m glad to see you looking so well,” Brienne wore an uncharacteristic smile.

“Aye, for a dead lady,” Jaime said with a mischievous grin.

“Hah! Good one, brother!”

Jaime bowed dramatically.

“Stop it, you two! No manners at all, I swear you’ll be the death of me!” Brienne quipped.

“Lady Brienne, the dark horse in this race!” Tyrion laughed heartily.

All eyes fell on Jon, who shriveled under the pressure, but his sister saved him, “Alright, enough jokes. Will someone _please_ hand me a plate before I _die_ of starvation?”

Everyone erupted in laughter.

“Sorry Brienne,” Tyrion said as he wiped tears from his eyes, “you’ll not win this battle.”

\------------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

_My pack._

Sansa had awoken to find Sandor sleeping in the chair at her bedside. She was glad to see him resting, knowing how difficult and tiring the past couple days had been for him. She watched him sleep, fighting to contain her giggles when he almost startled himself awake with a particularly loud snore.

_The bear to my maiden_.

Eventually it wasn’t enough to watch him. She needed him awake, needed to hear his voice.

After she woke him, they spent a few blissful minutes alone together, but then two became three when Jon entered. Then three became six when Tyrion, Jaime, and Brienne entered. Six became seven when Theon crept back in quietly. Seven became eight when Tormund stomped in quite loudly, calling her “Red Bird” – another pet name to add to his long list (though none sounded as sweet as when Sandor called her _little bird)._ Eight became ten when Thoros and Beric entered.

A servant brought three more trays of food and several wineskins, and the group sat around and – quite improperly – _in_ Sansa’s bed.

They didn’t ask her any more about her experience in the dark place. They told stories, they told jokes. They explained Tyrion’s drinking game to Thoros, Beric, and Jon, extracting a promise to play in the near future. They laughed. And suddenly Sansa realized she wasn’t in such a hurry to get back to the dark place – she’d have an eternity there after all, hopefully with not just her blood family but this adopted family. For some minutes Sansa enjoyed being a spectator as the group teased Tyrion for some reason or another. She sat smiling, overwhelmed by joy.

Her trance was broken by Jon, “What’s wrong, Sansa?”

She realized her eyes were filled with tears. _Some queen I am, sitting here crying and smiling like a simpleton._

“Nothing, brother, just thinking… about how lucky I am.”

Jaime jested, “Who is this sentimental creature the Heavens sent back in place of our iron-spined queen?” Brienne elbowed him.

“I’m as shocked as you are, Jaime.” The queen and her Knight stared at each in mutual admiration for several long seconds.

Tyrion, never comfortable with too earnest a moment, interrupted with more humor, “Settle a bet for us, Sansa, what did you miss most while on your little holiday? I say it was my sense of humor, Jaime thinks it was his golden mane, and Clegane thinks it was his ill-temper.”

Sansa smiled, something she could not keep herself from doing with all the power in the world, “I missed none of it, none of you, but the idea of that is quite ridiculous now.”

She looked around at each of her companions in turn, and each looked back, seemingly waiting for her next words with patience uncharacteristic of most of them.

“You’re quite the mangy lot: missing eyes, hands, noses, and ears… not to mention hair…” she raised an eyebrow at Thoros who grinned back – the balding priest gathered what little hair he had remaining into a bun on the top of his head, earning him the nickname ‘top knot’ from Sandor.

“So many scars among this group that we’d need a maester to tally them up… but together we make quite a fine pack, I dare say.”

Jon smiled, “The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

Jaime raised his cup, “I’ll drink to that.”


	66. Scars

**Sansa**

Sansa was ashamed that since waking she was thinking not one bit about the thousands of fallen men and women who lay piled atop one another on pyres, though even now, standing and watching their bodies burn, she could not summon much sympathy, not after experiencing the paradise that awaited them. So instead of mourning, instead of grieving, she spoke to them in her mind. _It was an honor to know you in this world, and I look forward to rejoining you in the next._

It would not do for the Queen to look so content under the circumstances, so Sansa forced a solemn frown upon her face, but could not summon a tear. As she looked around her though, she saw surprisingly few. She saw tired faces, and indeed some were truly sad, but she suspected that most of these men and women did not expect to survive the battle. They were sad for lost friends, and in some cases family, but most were too shocked and, in some cases, relieved to truly mourn – not yet.

Sansa did not show it, but the cold achiness had not yet left her bones. She didn’t want to trouble anyone to heat and haul buckets of water to her room, so she decided to take advantage of the hot springs in the Godswood. After the entire castle had fallen asleep, she slipped on her cloak and headed down to the Godswood. It was empty most days and every night as she knew from experience, but she still thoroughly inspected the grounds before setting down her lantern next to one of the small, natural pools. She undressed and quickly submerged herself up to her neck in water, not wanting to spend an extra second in the cold night air.

The warm water enveloped her in a comfort she hadn’t felt since leaving the dark place.

_It’s only been two days, but it felt like an eternity ago!_

She was starting to doze off, head resting on the mossy ground around the pool, when the sound of footsteps bolted her back to consciousness. Instinctively she grabbed the dagger from under her cloak. The footsteps got closer, snow crunching beneath them. Whoever was coming was taking care to walk slowly but was not a light person.

_Daenerys has sent an assassin to kill me. How was I so stupid to not rouse Sandor or Brienne to accompany me!?_

_Because you didn’t want to wake them, you’re always so bloody polite, and now it’s gotten you killed. Again._

In the time it took for the footsteps to round the hedge, Sansa considered her options:

_Throw the dagger before they have time to react? But if I miss, I will have no other weapon._

_Get up now and make a run for it? But I’m in no shape to outrun an assassin._

_Fight then; wait for the assailant to get close, let him think I am unarmed, and strike when he is not suspecting it._

She lowered the dagger under the water and held it between her knees before placing both her arms back on the ground.

_What songs they’ll sing of me… killed the Night King, came back from death only to die naked in the Godswood, slain by some very-human assassin._

So distracted was she by the sounds of the heavy footfalls approaching from the entrance that she did not hear the lighter footsteps sneaking up behind her until the owner of said feet was upon her. But he did not attack, he only growled.

_Ghost!_

The direwolf kept his red eyes pointed in the direction of the intruder, while slowing creeping closer, positioning himself between his lady and her attacker. _Now_ this _will make for a good song!_

Sansa rose up out of the water slightly, not caring that the tops of her breasts were exposed, she wanted to see the look on the assassin’s face when a full-grown direwolf pounced on him.

The second the large figure entered the clearing Ghost bounded toward him.

“Fuck!”

_No!_

“Ghost, stop!” The direwolf stopped dead in its tracks at his lady’s command, just in front of his intended victim – Sandor Clegane.

Sandor blinked at the beast before lifting his head to look for the source of the command.

“What the fuck, Sansa?!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you!”

“Well who else would it be?”

“I thought Daenerys sent someone to kill me!”

By now the vicious direwolf had forgotten himself and was happily jumping up to lick Sandor’s face.

“Get down, you filthy traitor! You were going to eat me ten seconds ago!”

Sansa giggled.

“You think that’s funny, do you? Alright your grace, you can clean the shite stains out of my smallclothes then.”

That made her laugh even harder, “I’m sorry!” she managed to utter.

“Aye, you sound it.”

“I am!”

“Next time you want to take a midnight stroll wake me instead of bringing this beast. It’s my job, remember?”

“I didn’t bring him, he just showed up at the right time, he must have sensed my fear.”

“So you came out here alone? That’s even more stupid.”

“Hey! I—”

“So afraid of assassins that you walk around alone, unarmed, in the middle of the night?”

“I wasn’t afraid of assassins until I heard you creeping up on me…”

“I wasn’t creeping, I came to look for you. When you weren’t in the Glass Gardens I came here. I was trying to be mindful in case you were praying, didn’t want to stomp in here like an aurochs.”

“And besides, I’m not unarmed!” Sansa produced the dagger.

Sandor blinked at her, “Where was that hidden, girl?”

She laughed again.

“Wait, what the fuck are you doing out here, anyway?”

“The hot water feels good.”

His expression became serious, “Still aching, little bird?”

“A little,” she shrugged. _Not a complete lie…_

He sighed, “Alright, well I’ll stand guard while you have your soak.”

He turned to walk back toward the entrance, but Sansa called after him, “Can’t you stand guard from over here?” She shocked herself with her own forwardness, but the look on his face when he turned back around showed she was not nearly as shocked as he.

He tentatively walked back and took a seat on one of the large rocks after dusting snow off of it. They stared at each other for several moments.

“You must be sore, too; you were the one swinging a sword for hours on end.”

“Aye, a bit stiff.”

He stared at her, understanding her invitation, but not accepting it.

_We’ve lain together… now he’s suddenly shy? Never hesitated before…_

_That was before he saw your body, your scars…_

It seemed unfair that Sandor of all people would be bothered by her scars, but Sansa knew how it was between men and women. Men wore scars like badges of honor, while women had to keep themselves pristine and pure for their husband’s enjoyment.

_He probably imagined me naked, those times we were together, probably envisioned the Maiden herself, and was disappointed to find it not so._

_But we kissed earlier today, and he seemed to like it, was it only because I was covered up? Is that how it will always need to be?_

It was ironic: after coming back from the dark place her scars didn’t trouble her as they once had; she was almost glad to learn that Sandor, Jon, and the others had seen them. Only now it no longer bothered her, but clearly bothered Sandor.

She swallowed the sadness rising up in her throat and resolved to not let his new awareness put an end to their relationship. She wanted his warmth, his passion. She wanted to sleep with his arms around her, his gentle snoring reminding her she wasn’t alone when she woke in the middle of the night.

“You should come in, Sandor. It will feel good. You needn’t look upon me, I’ll stay under the water.”

He cocked his head in confusion. His mouth eventually formed words, “Is that what you think?”

“It’s alright, I’m not offended,” she smiled to prove her point.

He shook his head but stood and began peeling of his clothes. His cloak, then his swordbelt, then his doublet, then tunic, before sitting back on the rock to remove his boots and standing again to pull off his breeches and smallclothes.

_Gods be good._

He sunk into the pool and swam the few feet over to her side, even though she was fairly certain he was tall enough to touch the bottom. When he got to her, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her legs around his waist. He placed his hands on either side of her face and kissed her deeply.

“You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen, Sansa.”

“You don’t have t—”

He silenced her with another kiss.

“But you talk too much sometimes, and you worry too much, _all_ the time.”

She laughed into his lips, unable to voice disagreement without proving his allegations.

With her arms wrapped around his shoulders he half-walked, half-swam them in circles around the small pool. Sometimes they kissed, sometimes they gazed up at the starry sky. Her chest wound occasionally peeked out from beneath the water’s surface. Sandor planted the most delicate of kisses on the puckered red line. She looked down at him, noticing his gentleness, “It doesn’t hurt that much.”

He nodded, “I don’t even want to know how that magic works, but I’m going to spend the rest of my life indebted to that Red Witch and that bald fucking priest.”

She giggled, “Maybe you can start showing your appreciation by calling them Melisandre and Thoros.

“That seems a bit excessive… I suppose I can call her by her name, but that cocksucker didn’t even want to bring you back at first, you know that?”

“Why not?”

“Said you deserved to rest; said you’d had enough of the cruel world of men.”

“Mmm.”

He looked at her, seemingly hesitating to say something. “What is it, Sandor?”

He directed his question into the water between them, “Was he right?”

“You know there was a reason I came back… because of her… But if you’re asking if I’m sorry to be back, no, I’m not. I was at first, but I’m not now. This world is cruel, but it’s also kind… Besides, you boys need supervision, and Brienne would have had her hands full…”

Sandor snorted, but said no more. He leaned against the side of the pool and rubbed her arms.

“Are you ready to get out?” she asked after a few minutes.

“Aye… I don’t suppose you brought sheets to dry with…”

“I brought _a_ sheet… I wasn’t expecting company… but I’ll share it with you; never say I’m not generous.”

“That’s more than fair,” Sandor pushed himself up and stood before pulling Sansa up out of the water like she weighed nothing at all. He opened the sheet and wrapped it around his back, holding it open in the front so she could enter his embrace.

\------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

The little bird was shivering by the time they got back to her room. She climbed under the furs while he stoked the fire. As soon as he joined her in bed, she snuggled against him, skin cold as ever.

“I’ve felt warmer corpses, little bird.”

“Ha, ha… save your japes for when Tyrion is around to appreciate them.”

“Fair enough, but truly, I’m going to start charging you if you keep taking all my warmth.”

“Well what would be fair recompense, in your opinion?”

“Hmm… well there’s little the Queen in the North could offer to someone as rich as Sandor Clegane…” She swatted his chest, a feeling he’d come to adore. “I’ll tell you what, how about one kiss for every hour of warming?”

“You drive a hard bargain, but I think that is fair. Let’s see, what is it now, after one o’clock? And we’ll be awake by eight o’clock?” He nodded. “Well to show you how fair I am I will round up and give you seven kisses then.”

“Payable immediately, in case that wasn’t clear.”

“Oh of course, I’d hate to owe you interest!” She smiled as she kissed him on the forehead, “One.”

“Bugger me, I wasn’t specific enough in my terms.”

The next kiss she planted on his lips, “Two.”

“Mmm… much better.”

The next on his neck, “Three.”

His eyes were closed now, enjoying the suspense of not knowing where her lips would land next.

Lifting the covers, she found the inside of his right wrist. “Four.”

Just above his belly button, “Five”

His right side, “Six.”

Number seven made him jump, as she pressed wet, open lips to the tip of his cock, “Seven.”

“Fuck me.”

“I had something else in mind,” her voice was muffled under the covers.

Still unable to see her, he jumped again upon feeling her tongue making a wet trail from balls to head. He was already hard as a rock when she began circling his tip with her tongue. “Little bird…” was all he could utter.

_Sansa fucking Stark is sucking my dick._

And suck she did. She took as much of him as she could into her soft warm mouth while her hand pumped the rest of him that her lips couldn’t reach.

“Fuck!”

As wonderful as their couplings had been, laying here while she serviced him was an entirely different experience. Some small part of him had always wondered if their encounters had been her using him to satisfy her own needs, but her action in this moment proved she was just as concerned about his pleasure as her own.

He needed to see her, to watch this act, so he pulled the furs away from her body, but his stomach clenched as soon as she was exposed to him.

Seemingly oblivious to his change in demeanor she continued her ministrations, but he could feel the blood draining from his cock as he took in the visage of her back: dozens of thin lines crisscrossed like basket weave.

“Little bird."

She continued.

“Stop, little bird, stop,” he said too firmly.

She looked up at him, perplexed, “What’s wrong?” but quickly noticed his face.

Blushing she pulled a fur tightly around her, “You said…” She couldn’t finish her sentence; tears were filling her eyes, and her bottom lip was trembling.

“No, little bird, it’s not that…”

“Get out!”

“Sansa I’m sorry it just su—”

“Get out!” She shoved him hard, and he should have had the decency to pretend to budge.

“No, it isn’t like that, I just—”

“Please, Sandor, just go!”

She wouldn’t even look at him. She buried herself under the layers of blankets and sobbed into her pillow.

Not knowing what words to say to calm her or convince her that she was still beautiful to him, he pulled on his breeches and left, not bothering with the the rest of his clothes.


	67. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor challenges himself

**Sandor**

_Fucking dumb dog!_

He paced his room, guzzling his second wineskin of the night.

_Why the fuck did you react that way? Wasn’t any worse than the front of her – all the little scars, the branding. Gods you’re a fucking cunt!_

But it _was_ different; it was alarming to see her back for the first time, but it wasn’t just the shock, it was the _guilt_. He thought he was past it, but as soon as he saw her back and what that monster Ramsay had done, it reminded him of every time Joffrey had ordered her stripped and beaten with Meryn Trant’s sword. Sandor hadn’t been there to stop Ramsay from lashing her, but he was there when she was beaten by the Kingsguard, and he knew some of those scars were from them.

_Jaime fucking Lannister was brave enough to drive his sword through his king’s back, why couldn’t I have done the same?_

It hadn’t been disgust in _her_ that made him react the way he did last night – it was disgust in himself. But she didn’t even give him a chance to explain.

_Would it have mattered, anyway? Either way I literally went soft when I saw her back, would she care what the exact reason was? No, most likely she’d only care that I couldn’t look upon her and maintain my interest._

But he was sure he could, now that he wouldn’t be so shocked. He needed a chance to show her, but she wouldn’t even give him a chance to _explain_. He had tried to speak with her several times today, but each time the cold Ice Queen cut him down at the knees.

He gave up after the third attempt and retrieved three wineskins from the kitchen, barking at the girl who tried to tell him they were still being rationed.

That was over an hour ago, and he was no closer to a solution than he’d been before getting piss drunk. He uncorked the third skin and was about to take a swig when someone knocked on his door. Hoping it was the little bird he didn’t even ask who it was before unbolting the door, which promptly swung in and hit him hard in the mouth.

“What the fuck?!”

Brienne barged in, shoving him aside and slamming the door behind her.

While he was still holding his mouth, Brienne grabbed him by the front of his tunic and nearly lifted him off the ground to shove him hard against the stone wall. _So that’s what that feels like…_

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“Nothing!”

“Then what did you _say?!”_

“I don’t have to explain myself to you, ya big bitch!” he roared back.

In a flash she drew her dagger and held it to his groin, “You will unless you want to spend the rest of your life sitting down to piss!”

“Fuck! Alright! Get that fucking thing away from me before you do something you’ll regret.”

“Oh I doubt I’ll regret it but talk and I’ll sheath my steel.”

He’d never seen her this angry. Even when they fought at Saltpans it was honor, not rage, that drove her. _Though both times were over a Stark girl._

Once she’d backed away, he spit blood out onto the floor.

_Fucking cunt._

“Speak before I lose my patience, Clegane.”

“What did she tell you?”

“As much as she ever tells anyone – _nothing._ But she was crying when I brought her to her chambers tonight.”

“She was?!”

“Don’t act so surprised! I know you’re the cause, I noticed the way she spoke to you all day.”

“I know that! I just mean… I’m surprised she’s still crying, I thought she moved on to anger.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, “You should know better than most that anger is just a disguise for hurt.”

“Aye, well you never met my brother. Peel back his anger all you’d find is more anger.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, just tell me what you did so I can figure out how to fix it.”

“Will you let me worry about that? My mistake, my job to correct it.”

“I wish I could, but I don’t think you’re the type who has any idea what a lady needs to mend an aching heart.”

“And you do?”

She huffed, but in all honesty, he could use the help. He’d spent all day trying to think of the right words or gestures, and the best he could do was drink himself into a stupor.

_But how do I tell Brienne what happened? ‘Well, your pretty little queen had my big cock in her mouth when I noticed the scars on her back and acted like a frightened fool.’_ No, that would not do.

He cleared his throat, suddenly self-conscious, “I assume you’re aware of Sansa and my…”

“Relationship? No, how would I ever piece that puzzle together?”

“Enough sarcasm, if you want to help, _help!”_

“Fine. Yes, I’m aware that you and Sansa have a relationship that is… _romantic_ in nature… though why I’ll never understand—”

“I get it, she’s beautiful, I’m ugly… you’re not helping.”

Brienne closed her eyes but twirled her hand to motion for him to continue.

“Well, we were being… _intimate_ … and I may have over-reacted to seeing her scars for the first time.”

Brienne looked puzzled, “You saw her scars, after she—”

“Not _those_ scars, the ones on her back… I assume you’ve seen them.”

“So? They’re no worse than the rest of them. Gods, I’d take fifty lashings before I let someone brand his disgusting sigil on my flesh.”

“It wasn’t that… it just made me think of, other things…”

_Why is this so hard to say? How do other people have conversations? This is exhausting._

She stared at him a few moments. “You mean your time in King’s Landing? When Joffrey’s Kingsguard would—"

_“Yes!”_

“I don’t understand why that would be any worse than thinking about what Ramsay did to her… or Littlefinger for that matter, Gods only know what that snake did to—”

“Thank you for the reminder! I know it’s no worse than Ramsay, but I wasn’t _there_ for Ramsay. I was there for _everything_ in King’s Landing.”

“Ahh… you were there, and did nothing?”

He looked down at his feet, “Once I did something but… no, no. I did nothing.”

“And Lady Sansa resents you for it?”

“No, of course she doesn’t. She forgave me… or rather said there was nothing to forgive, that any action would’ve cost me my head and only earned her another beating, but…”

“But _nothing_ , she is right.”

“But that doesn’t make it feel any better! It doesn’t get the fucking images of it out of my mind! I still have fucking nightmares!” He took a long sip of his wine before Brienne snatched it out of his hands.

“Hey!”

“Shut up… your reaction to seeing her back had nothing to do with _her_ , yes? You still find her pretty?”

“Of course!”

“Then tell her that, what’s so bloody difficult?”

“Oh, thanks for the advice!” he threw his hands up, “I tried that, multiple times.”

“Well try harder.”

“How? Pin her down and make her listen?”

Brienne sighed, “You say you saw her scars for the first time, last night, right?”

“Aye.”

“But you’ve been _intimate_ before?” Brienne’s cheeks turned red.

“Yes… she never undressed.” He felt himself blush to match Brienne.

“So she finally let her guard down, and that’s how you reacted.”

“ _Again_ , thank you for telling me things I already know! I could get better advice from the bear-fucker!”

Brienne huffed, “All I’m saying is maybe it’s not your words she is rejecting, she probably feels humiliated. She probably can’t stand to see you right now.”

_Now you’re being helpful!_ “So you’ll tell her for me?”

“No! Gods, are you a _child_? I mean for you to put it in a letter so she can read it without having to suffer the indignity of looking at you.”

He scrunched his face, “That doesn’t sound right. I don’t know much about women—”

“You don’t say…”

He huffed, “…but I thought it would be viewed as craven if a man put such words in a letter instead of saying them face to face.”

“You’ve tried that, and I’m sure she will appreciate the effort once she hears – or rather reads – what you would have said.”

He had to admit her logic was sound, only Sandor had never written a letter, certainly not to a lover.

“Right, so what do I write in the letter?”

She exhaled loudly to voice her frustration at his ineptitude, “You write what you just told me. You apologize, but try not to sound guilty, after all your reaction wasn’t out of _repulsion,_ right? It was because it triggered memories you aren’t comfortable with.”

“What else?”

“Well, you might want to tell her you love her.”

“I’m not putting that in a fucking letter!”

“Well you told all of us how you feel about her!”

“Aye, when she was _dead!”_

“Well the time to tell someone how you feel is _before_ they die, when they can appreciate it.”

“If you’re trying to make me look a fool…”

“I’m not, I promise. I’m trying to help you make Lady Sansa happy again, Gods know she deserves it. I’d rather see her with almost anyone else in the realm, but whatever she sees in you I’ll just have to accept. You’re the one she’s chosen, for whatever reason, your short temper and mean tongue… I swear you say ‘shite’ and she hears ‘honey’.”

He snorted, “Alright, go on… I’ve got a letter to write… wait, I haven’t any parchment.”

She rolled her eyes at him, “Gods, how have you survived this long?”

He shrugged, “I’m a big fucker and I’m tough to kill.”

A moment later Brienne returned with parchments and quill, which he stared at, suddenly losing his confidence. Brienne looked at him sympathetically, “I can write it, if you want to dictate.”

“I know my bloody letters, just… out of practice.”

“She knows you’re not a bard or a maester.”

As he sat to write Brienne looked around a bit before awkwardly patting him on the back then brusquely exiting his room.

He sighed and began writing his every thought, knowing he could rewrite it if unsatisfied.

> _Lady Sansa,_
> 
> _First, let me apologize that my penmanship is unfit for a Queen to look upon. This ~~fucking~~ quill looks like it was made for the Imp in my hands. I think I now know the reason I was destined to wield a sword. If somewhere there exists a quill as big as a dagger, then mayhap I’ll find a second calling as a Bard. It’s certainly a safer profession._
> 
> _Well, I suppose I should state my purpose: Since you won’t listen to my words, mayhap you’ll at least read them. I didn’t mean to react as I did last night, but you need to understand it wasn’t for the reason you think. Despite what you say about there being nothing to forgive, I still bear guilt for failing to protect you from the bastard King and his guards. The memories of ~~those cunts~~ Trant and Blount – well, you know what they did – they are seared into my mind’s eye. When I saw what that other fucker did to you, I wasn’t repulsed by the sight as you think I was. I was repulsed by the memories of my own failure; reminded of what a ~~fucking~~ waste of space I was back then. Mayhap still am. But I swear if you can find it in your beautiful heart to forgive me once more, I will kiss every one of your scars just to show you they don’t bother me, in fact I will cherish every one of them. Despite how they got there, they are a demonstration of the fact that you’re the strongest woman in all the land – perhaps the strongest person._
> 
> _Look at me, little bird – I have half a face and yet you look at me like I’m a handsome knight from one of your songs, ‘Ser Meltedface’. I must keep reminding myself you haven’t gone mad just to be able to enjoy your attention. The truth is girl you could have a thousand more scars and you’d still be the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes upon. The shape of you, the color of you, the softness of you. Do you know how many times I took myself in hand just thinking of your pretty little mouth? Bugger me, you'd better burn this letter after reading, for your own sake if not mine._
> 
> _Or how many times I imagined what your teats look like? Do you know when I finally saw them last night, they were even better than I expected? So round, so womanly, with perfect pink nipples. I swear by the everywhere-God in your dark place I’ll think of them every time I eat a strawberry or look upon a pink rose. I’ll be half-hard just walking through the Glass Gardens, so if you never see me there during daytime you’ll know why._
> 
> _And your hair – always smelling like lavender or sweet almond. Even when it only smells like you – like skin and air – I like it just as much. And your feet really don’t stink, though probably only because they’re cold as icicles – really, can’t you learn to sleep in socks? But even if they did stink, I’d still rub them for you, and let you press them against my legs at night to steal my warmth. Because I’m powerless to deny you anything, isn’t it obvious? You can deny me anything, just please not your presence, not your affection. Starve me, beat me, yell at me, make me crawl around on my hands and knees like your pet, just don’t fucking cast me aside. Please, little bird?_
> 
> _Now you definitely should burn this letter. Or, if you want to be rid of me for good, just tack it up in the dining hall for everyone to read, I’ll disappear without a trace._
> 
> _But I wouldn’t, would I? Because you’ve ruined me girl. I’d suffer even that humiliation to stay by your side. So now you know how to punish me. I’m handing you all the power, not that I ever held any to begin with._
> 
> _I don’t know what else to say other than every word in the ~~fucking~~ common tongue. The good ones are everything I feel about you. The bad ones are everything I feel about myself, or every way I feel when you’re not near me._
> 
> _Yours, even if you’re not mine,_
> 
> _Sandor Clegane_
> 
> _P.S. In case you have ever been jealous of my strong arms that can swing a sword for hours, please know that I’m presently marveling at how you can sometimes spend all day writing letters and ledgers. My hand is thoroughly cramped. I hope it has not been in vain._

He reread his letter and nearly crumpled it up to start over but decided against it. Every word was truth, and even though he was the dog, the little wolf was just as good at smelling lies. If he tried to sound like some lovestruck minstrel she’d see right through it.

_If she rejects this, at least I’ll know it’s me she is rejecting, not someone I’m pretending to be._

Having no wax he folded the letter in half three times. Now he faced another dilemma – how to give it to her. He did not want to be there when she read it – he’d not be able to stand the minute of watching her read, it would be like waiting for the executioner’s blade to fall on his neck.

He’d have to slip it into her room and hope she would read it and not simply throw it into the hearth. But sneaking into her room didn’t seem proper. He decided to accept Brienne’s help one more time. Knocking quietly on her door so as not to draw the attention of the little bird, he waited for her to open it. She had been sleeping, he could tell.

“Sorry to disturb you… can you give this to Lady Sansa on the morrow?”

Brienne looked down at the folded parchment with sleepy eyes and nodded.

“And mayhap, wait for a moment she is in a good mood – relatively speaking.”

She nodded again.

He spoke to his feet, “You have my thanks.”

When she remained silent, he looked back up at her face without lifting his head. She was staring at him in awe.

“Ah, get over it, wench.”

He walked back to his room but swore he heard her chuckle behind him.


	68. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is overwhelmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter coincides with the day Sandor wrote the letter, but from Sansa's POV, then continues past that day.

**Sansa**

Her first two days after waking from the dark place were spent mainly sleeping and recuperating, so Sansa was pleasantly surprised on the third day to find that work had not ground to a halt while she slumbered. Jon and Tyrion stepped into her shoes to task builders with the most direly needed repairs, but much still needed Sansa’s attention.

Sansa was disheartened by her evening with Sandor but felt downright hopeless when she finally walked the castle grounds to survey the damage. A large part of her wanted to throw her hands up in surrender when she saw that so many of the repairs that had been done after retaking Winterfell from the Boltons would need to be done again.

Significant portions of the exterior wall were missing. Most of the mounted weapons that Sandor and his team had built and installed in the past weeks were no more than splintered wood mixed in with the fallen stones from the walls. The Broken Tower had finally succumbed to death. Several of the halls and keeps would need new roofs and doors. The large dining hall t would eventually need new windows. When she entered the hall many of the wounded tried to sit up to pay respects to their queen, much to her embarrassment. She motioned for them to lay down and most complied, likely out of necessity more than desire. She walked the rows and spoke to those who were awake and seemingly interested in conversing. Many expressed their concern for her health, which caused her further embarrassment. She thanked the maesters, healers, and Septas and bowed her exit.

She visited the Glass Gardens and was relieved to see that the wooden reinforcements served their purpose – the gardens were largely intact. Sansa supposed that the wights ignored those buildings altogether as there were no men in there for them to target; any damage was incidental.

Finally she walked to the lichyard and was saddened to see the small building that sheltered the entrance to the crypts had been completely trampled. The rubble would need to be cleared away before anyone could enter – which is exactly what she had intended to do this evening. Most of the grave markers in the lichyard had fallen over as well. She’d been avoiding Sandor’s eye contact all day but couldn’t help but notice that as they stood in the center of the yard, he looked at the ground angrily.

_The last time he was here, he watched me die._

She wanted to comfort him but was not ready to have a personal conversation with him, or really any conversation with him. It would only open up a dialogue about what happened the prior night. She knew he cared about her too much to speak the truth on that subject. He wouldn’t lie to her, generally, but to protect her from pain he would. If the truth was that he could not be with her in _that way_ because of her scars, he needed time and distance to realize that. Either way, she knew his immediate reaction would be to try to fix the pain he had caused her, and he would say anything to do that – he would lie to her and to himself.

Instead she spoke to the steward who accompanied her to make notes of the needed repairs, “This will need to be repaired, but it can wait; the living take priority over the dead.”

It was nearly afternoon when she went to her solar to meet with Jon, Ser Jaime, and Lord Tyrion to get updates from them.

Tyrion had taken on the unpleasant task of polling all the Lords and Commanders to get an accurate count of the casualties. Of the 15,000 total men and women who fought in the Battle for Life, as they had come to officially call it (or _The Long Night_ , as it was more commonly referred) 8,700 survived. Of the 8,700 survivors, 300 were gravely injured and not expected to see the end of the week. Another 700 sustained serious but non-lethal injuries; the remainder were alive and only lightly wounded. Sansa was surprised at the relatively low number of wounded, but Jon explained that the wights seemed focused on not just maiming but killing their opponents – likely a strategy employed by the Night King to maximize the number of new soldiers to add to his dead army.

The number of casualties was also somewhat surprising. Perhaps trying to prepare herself for the worst, Sansa had expected to hear that more than half of their people had perished. Jaime was able to offer explanation for this as well. Though the size and relentlessness of their opponent made the battle _feel_ long, it actually only lasted six hours from start to finish. The attack began at nightfall, and Sansa killed the Night King just after midnight.

_Only six hours? It felt like an eternity!_

Sansa did the math in her head – 6,600 killed over 6 hours – that was eighteen killed per minute. But she realized that the first few hours saw few casualties as her forces held the wall. The majority of deaths occurred in the last 3-4 hours of the battle – so the rate could be as high as 36 killed per minute.

She shared these calculations with the men around her. Jaime looked solemn as he told Sansa that would be typical for a battle waged in open field, though all the men seemed to agree that they could have fared much, much worse, though Sansa was thinking precisely the opposite.

She shook her head, “Or much _better_. I stood there watching the Night King stand in the lichyard for at least an hour. Waiting, hoping for him to come to me. Likely 2,000 lives perished while I stood around doing next to nothing.”

Jon looked sympathetic, “Sansa, none of us would have acted any sooner. Moreover, I’m not sure any of us would have thought to do what you did or been able to do it if we had. You have nothing to feel guilty over.”

She nodded but felt no relief.

“How many of the casualties were Stark men?” she asked.

Tyrion and Jaime looked at each other before the latter answered, “About 1,400.”

Sansa nodded again, and again felt like a failure. The peace she felt while watching the pyres burn had faded. Each hour of each day she felt more grounded in this world and less connected to the dark place. She still took comfort in thinking about the afterlife as she’d experienced it but had to _force_ herself to think of it, whereas the first two days she had trouble _not_ thinking about it.

“Has anyone sent a raven to Alysane Mormont?”

Tyrion cleared his throat, “I did, my lady, and I told her about her sister Lyanna. I hope you don’t mind. I told her the battle was won but asked if she could continue harboring our refugees another three nights. They should be departing Bear Island on the morrow.”

Sansa dismissed Jon and Jaime but asked Tyrion to stay. As her Hand, he could help with many of the tasks she needed to begin. Among other things, they’d need to estimate the cost of the repairs and update the ledgers. They’d need to identify which of the slain men left behind wives or children that would need to be looked in on – Sansa planned to ask Jon to help, now that he bore the Stark name she did not think anyone would be insulted to be visited by him instead of Sansa.

They’d also need to place orders for supplies from White Harbor. And – if that wasn’t enough to do – it seemed everyone was expecting a celebratory feast. Sansa had managed to convince everyone the feast could wait at least fortnight – she used the excuse of waiting for the women, children, and elderly to arrive back from Bear Island to justify the delay, but that only prolonged the amount of time she’d need to continue feeding all her vassals’ men. Blessedly, they had brought their own provisions, which were stored at Castle Cerwyn during the battle. While Sansa was recovering, Tyrion, with Sandor’s help, had dispatched a group of three dozen men to go retrieve the food and supplies, and they would arrive back sometime today.

There were a few other tasks that Sansa must see to that would be bittersweet for her and others, but she pushed them from her mind – they could wait. Sansa toiled on the more pressing tasks well into the night and was startled awake the next morning by the sound of knocking at her bedchamber door. She had fallen asleep at the table in her private solar. Judging by the brightness of her room she had slept well past dawn. She opened her door with little concern for how unkempt she must look, though she felt herself blush as Sandor appraised her and smirked.

“Would you please have tea sent up to my solar?”

“Aye, my lady.” He pointed to her right cheek, still smiling, “You’ve got some ink on your face.”

She wiped at her cheek with her sleeve, “Is it gone?”

He shook his head but was clearly trying to contain his amusement.

“Oh bloody hells.” She left the door open but went to wet a cloth and wipe at her cheek. After an earnest effort she asked Sandor, who had chanced a few steps into her room, if she’d been successful.

“It’s still there, but I can no longer make out the words,” his grin returned.

Huffing, she threw the cloth down on her table, “Then tell them to send up a bath along with the meal, don’t just stand there being useless!”

Immediately after the words left her mouth she winced, “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for…”

He interrupted before she could try to justify her short temper.

“No apology needed, my lady. As it turns out, I was planning to ask if I might make myself _useful_ today by leading a hunting party. I’m sure feeding all the hungry mouths is one of the many issues contributing to your… frustration. Might be gone more than just today, though.”

“Yes, that would be most helpful and most appreciated, Clegane.”

He turned to leave before she thought of another request, “Oh, and would you be so kind as to summon Lord Tyrion to my solar?”

She couldn’t tell if he were joking when he replied, “If I’ve been demoted from shield to page, please let me know, I’d prefer _not_ wear armor all day if it isn’t needed.”

She snorted, “I apologize for the offense, _Ser,_ I never knew you to be one to care about _titles_ – and I happen to know you _would_ prefer wear armor all day.”

He exited without another word but ten minutes later servants arrived with her tea and buckets of hot water and a tub.

…

Sandor indeed did not return until almost evening of the following day, though Sansa was almost too busy to notice his absence. His return, however, could not be ignored. Between Sandor, his hounds and the hunters who accompanied him, they returned with two carts full of game. In addition to over a dozen rabbits, they hauled one Elk, four does, and ten snow geese. Such a bounty with only four hounds and less than two days of effort was worthy of strong praise, and praised they were. Sansa was crossing the courtyard, heading from the maester’s turret to her bedchamber to change for the evening ceremony and meal, when Sandor’s party entered through the Hunter’s Gate. The men were greeted by the applause of those in the vicinity.

Sansa’s heart skipped a beat when she saw him. Brienne had delivered her a letter earlier today. It had been written by Sandor a couple evenings prior, Brienne informed her. As she handed it to Sansa, she made a petition: _“I know the man is crude, and his words can be rough, but I do believe his feelings for you are genuine. If you return those feelings, I’d advise you to give him another chance.”_

Reading the letter brought tears to her eyes as much as she tried to fight them. The unembellished letters, the course language (and several stricken but still visible curse words) – it was so utterly _him._ She could practically hear his voice, his intonation, speaking the words to her. She felt suddenly ashamed for not giving him the chance to explain himself that night or the next day. She had thought it wise to give him time to think about what he truly wanted, but now she knew it was only her own fear that drove her decision. If the words in his letter were to be trusted – and she knew they were – there was no doubt about his love for her – though he’d not used that word, or ever spoken it to her.

She felt even more ashamed of how she had treated him so coldly since that night, like he meant nothing to her. She refused to let him speak to her of personal matters, and even called him ‘Clegane’ instead of ‘Sandor’ to try to further distance herself from him.

Like a lovestruck fool, after reading the letter she wanted to ride her mare out and find him wherever he was in the woods and tell him how sorry she was. Luckily his party returned not long after, or else she may have found herself on a midnight ride alone in the unforgiving northern woods.

Now she watched him from across the courtyard, resisting the urge to run into his arms. He was, as always, uncomfortable with the attention and praise being poured on him and his companions but was clearly trying to be gracious rather than yelling at everyone to bugger off. The thought made her smile. It was easy to forget how much he’d changed since their time together in the Red Keep.

She let him have this moment, unwanted as it might be, until she saw a pretty kitchen girl approach him and dare to stroke his arm.

_The nerve!_

She couldn’t have stopped her own feet if she’d tried. The crowd parted for their queen, who walked right up to the hunting party and greeted them warmly. She addressed them all, but mostly held Sandor’s eyes, “My good men, you do Winterfell a great service. I’m glad to see you’ve had a bountiful hunt. There is a private ceremony and supper soon to start in the Great Hall to bestow certain honors. I invite you to join us, the proceedings will start in an hour, so you’ll have time to freshen up or rest if desired.” The men nodded appreciatively at their queen.

As Sansa turned to leave she threw a sideways glance at the over-friendly kitchen girl, who she knew by both name and reputation, “Mildred, it is kind of you to greet our hunters, but I believe Cook needs every available set of hands this evening, short-staffed as we are.”

The girl blushed fiercely as she scurried off to the kitchens.

_Good riddance._

She did not turn to see Sandor’s reaction to her chasing off her _competition_ – not that she truly felt threatened by the girl. It was beneath her as a lady and queen to act so immaturely, but she could not help herself. The idea of anyone but Sansa getting to feel the bulge of muscle beneath his jerkin made her feel every bit a territorial she-wolf.

\--------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

_What in the bloody Hells was that?!_

First some pretty wench is cooing over him, and next the little bird herself is practically undressing him with her eyes while she addressed his group of hunters.

When Sandor left her company early the previous day Sansa had acted cold and even rude toward him. Now she was practically throwing herself at him.

_Did Brienne give her the letter?_

He didn’t let himself fully believe that her jealousy over the wench meant he had been completely forgiven, but he certainly felt good about his odds. Though he never enjoyed formal ceremonies and feasts, he had every intention of attending the one taking place this evening, if for no other reason than to observe the little bird’s behavior.

He hurriedly stabled Stranger then returned to his room to wash up and dress but was uncertain what he should wear. Would Sansa be expecting him to stand as her shield or would he be attending as just another guest? Her invitation hinted at the latter, but he did not want to appear presumptuous.

_You really are a hopeless fool, dog… worrying about what to wear like you’re some maiden hunting for a husband._

He ultimately decided on a compromise. He’d wear his best breeches and leather boots along with the padded leather doublet which functioned as light chest armor. He would forego the pauldrons and vambraces but would of course wear his swordbelt and carry both sword and dagger.

After dressing he faced another choice – should he knock on Sansa’s door and offer his escort? Once again, she didn’t explicitly request it, but as her shield it was assumed that he would escort her everywhere unless instructed otherwise. He decided to take the chance and knock. Through her heavy door he thought he heard her call out but was not certain. He took a step back, feeling suddenly awkward and regretting every decision he’d made, but there was no time to change his mind as her door swung open.

“Oh, hello Sandor, I was not expecting you.”

“Uh- I uh- was not sure whether you expected me to escort you to the hall this evening.”

“I did not expect it but would enjoy it very much. Would you wait for me just a moment?”

He nodded, secretly glad he’d have time to recover. The little bird had looked stunning. She wore a gown made of fabric the color of charcoal. The tight sleeves came down just to her wrists, and the shirts were more form-fitting than he’d ever seen her wear. The waistline was high – just below her bosom. The fabric of the bosom was lined with layers of black bird feathers – raven or crow, he assumed, and was cut in a V to reveal an alluring but still modest amount of skin on her breastbone.

As the door reopened, he took in more of her appearance. The collar on the back and sides of her neck came up almost to her hairline and was similarly feather-lined. Her hair was braided but the braids were pinned up on her head.

_Tell her she looks beautiful._

But no words came out.

He offered his arm and she took it. He was grateful for the less formal way Northern lords and ladies treated their shields. As Cersei’s shield he was never permitted to walk next to her, much less take her arm. He would walk behind and to her left. If he had to walk behind Sansa tonight, he’d be wishing for his cloak to cover the evidence of his arousal. As it was, he kept his eyes pointed forward, not permitting himself to glance down at the bit of snow-white skin beneath the hollow of her neck. In King’s Landing he’d seen all manner of provocative _ladies_ clothing; he marveled at how the slightest bit of exposed skin could be so attractive to him now.

_Because it’s_ her _skin._

He finally worked up the courage to speak, “Nice dress.”

_Fucking oaf, that’s the best you can come up with?_

Before she could respond he added, “Is it one of your creations?”

She gave him the smallest smile, “Partly. I made it while married to Ramsay, early on. I’d had the dress since my time in the Vale, but I added the feathers. Maester Damon was given permission to bring them to me. Embroidery and music – the two hobbies I was permitted, in the beginning at least.”

“And in the end?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh.” _Fucking bastard._

She must have sensed his ire for she tried to soothe him, “It’s alright, I slept most of the day, I’d not have use for hobbies.”

“Oh, well in that case…” what was meant to be sarcasm came out as bitterness, “Sorry, little bird.”

She said no more but did not seem angry. Walking the rest of the way in silence he had a chance to think on her words and realize it was the most she’d ever said about her time with Ramsay. He now also realized what Theon meant about the Milk of the Poppy she’d become addicted to – it wasn’t given to her to make her compliant for Ramsay’s nightly abuse, it was to allow her to sleep during the day so she’d be all the more awake and alert for everything he inflicted on her by night.

He was jerked back as she stopped walking abruptly, “The rage is radiating off of you. I’d rather hoped for an enjoyable evening, if you’re not in the mood for festivities then just say so.”

“I’m fine, my lady. Or, I will be. It’s not easy for me to hear about _him._ ”

She exhaled through her nose, “I know, that’s why I never spoke of him, but you seem equally bothered by that.”

“You’re right, I know. I want you to be able to talk to me, I want to know, it’s just…”

_Just what? Do you really want to know? The truth will only make you angry._

But she seemed to have a solution, “I shouldn’t have told you that on the way to the ceremony. Do you still wish to come?”

“Aye.”

She nodded and they continued into the Great Hall. Sandor was surprised to see a fairly small gathering of only Lords, Ladies, and Officers.

At one table sat Lords Glover, Cassel, Flint, and Gianstbane and Ladies Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Karstark. There were about a dozen men at another table – most Sandor had seen in the preceding weeks but did not know by name. At the same table sat Jon, Tyrion, Brienne, Podrick, Jaime and the few men that had been part of Sandor’s hunting party.

“Clegane, I need no guard tonight. Please sit with your friends, if it please you.”

Years of instinct almost had him telling her he had no friends, but he swallowed the words. “Thank you, my lady.”

Everyone stood when Sansa entered, and did not sit again until after she took her seat at the head of the Lords’ table.

Sandor took the empty seat next to Brienne.

Sansa rose again, goblet in hand, and opened the proceedings with a speech, “My Lords and Ladies, thank you for joining me this evening. The recent days been trying, to say the least. Our only cause to celebrate has been life itself, something most of us take for granted. Tonight, however, is an opportunity to celebrate those among us who are most worthy – those who serve without seeking reward; those who sacrifice time and again for the sake of others. For a few hours tonight, let’s honor those around us with the recognition they deserve even if they’d never ask for it.”

_Short and sweet, just as a speech should be._

Over the first hour, the Lords and Ladies granted Knighthoods to most of the men present that Sandor did not recognize. Sandor knew Knighthood was less common in the North and it was certainly apparent tonight as only a dozen men were Knighted among the thousands who fought.

Sansa stood again once all the Knighthoods were granted, “There are a few appointments to announce. By now they are commonly known, though we did not have the time for formal proclamations, which I shall remedy now…”

Turning to look at the Kingslayer she continued, “Ser Jaime Lannister has served me loyally and bravely since I was no more than a refugee from my own home. His experience and knowledge as a commander and military strategist played a significant role in our victory in the Battle of Winterfell, not to mention the Battle for Life. Ser Jaime has honored me greatly by accepting the position of Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms. I have no doubt he will serve admirably.”

“The next appointee is a man I had expected to never see again. My joy at being proven wrong illustrates the fact that he is not only a true friend, but the best husband I’ve ever had.” Several chuckles were heard, and the man himself raised his goblet. “Lord Tyrion Lannister has been described as ‘too smart for his own good’ – and that appraisal may very well be true, but I’m willing to gamble that he will be just the right amount of smart for _our_ collective good. Lord Tyrion has been officially named Hand to the Queen in the North and, unofficially, Winterfell’s _Master-of-Feasts.”_

“Here, here!” Tormund bellowed.

Tyrion addressed the crowd, “Don’t worry, I have my priorities straight – the feasts will get 60% of my attention; running the Kingdom will get 40%.”

After the laughter died down, Sansa continued, “The next order of business is bittersweet for me, as I’m sure it is for everyone here. Lord Hother Umber was among my father’s most loyal bannermen, and later extended that loyalty to my brother and myself without hesitation. His absence will certainly be felt throughout the North, most notably in House Umber itself, but I have no doubt that his daughter, Lady Helena Umber will carry on his legacy. Lady Helena, it pleases me to name you the Lady of House Umber, with full rights to Last Hearth and all its lands and assets.”

Sandor noted the new Lady Umber looked nothing like her late father; he considered it a mercy.

“The next appointment is one that gives me great pleasure. My brother Jon has led the Night’s Watch admirably for the last three years, which were indisputably the most challenging in the history of the Watch. Now that the Long Night is over, Jon will focus on overseeing the development of The Gift – the land given to the Night’s Watch by my ancestors long ago, but that has never been exploited of its full potential. And Jon will assume this task with the full power and authority of a trueborn Stark. A few months ago at Castle Black, I legitimized Jon under witness of Sandor Clegane. He is now Lord Jon Stark, and my official heir.”

Sansa had to pause as nearly all present cheered passionately.

“As anyone who knew my late father Ned Stark can attest, Jon is as much a Stark as any of his siblings, and I’ve no doubt he will carry on our family legacy honorably, should he be called upon to do so.”

Jon bowed his thanks but couldn’t hide the sadness in his eyes – at least not from Sandor, who knew just how likely it was that the future of House Stark laid entirely in Jon Stark’s blood and seed.

“Now, I must beg your pardons for the slight breach in protocol, but I wanted to save this appointment for last. Ser Jaime, would you join me again?”

Jaime rose and walked to stand next to Sansa, unable to contain his grin.

“Lady Brienne, would you also join us?” Sansa beckoned.

Brienne’s face reddened, and she looked around completely baffled. Sandor and her companions only shrugged as she hesitantly stood and approached her lady.

Sansa continued, “Like Ser Jaime, Lady Brienne came into my service when I had nothing but my name and the clothes on my back. For those who don’t know, Lady Brienne once swore herself to my mother, Lady Catelyn. The promise made was to find and bring to safety Catelyn’s daughters. After my mother’s death, Brienne did not consider herself released. She did indeed succeed in finding my sister Arya, though was unable to bring her home, and it turned out to be for the best – at the time the Boltons held Winterfell. Instead, Brienne eventually met up with Ser Jaime and convinced him to travel north in hopes of lending me their aid – and that is exactly what they did…”

“It saddens me to have lost Ser Daryl Poole in the battle. He was one of my earliest supporters, a man who was not just an excellent soldier and commander, but wise also wise and merciful. I can think of no one better to step into his shoes than Lady Brienne.”

Brienne was wide-eyed, clearly not expecting the appointment.

“Lady Brienne, do you accept the position of Winterfell’s Captain-of-the-Guards?”

Brienne looked around at her companions before nodding, “You do me a great honor, my lady. I will serve the position to the best of my ability.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” turning to face the other guests Sansa continued, “In the time I’ve known Lady Brienne, she has placed honor and duty above all else, and she does so with neither arrogance nor vanity. She is kind yet she is fierce. She is capable yet humble. With her shielding my back I have no fear. She renewed my faith in Knights – a faith which I lost during my time in King’s Landing – though she was no Knight,” a mischievous smile formed on Sansa’s lips, “but that does not seem fair, does it, Ser Jaime?”

“It does not, my lady.”

“As Queen in the North I can correct this oversight myself, but it seems fitting that you, Ser Jaime – her closest friend – should have the honors.”

Brienne looked around, still puzzled. Jaime’s commanding voice broke her trance, “Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

The emotion in the room was palpable. Even Sandor, who held no love for Knights, was moved by what was about to happen – and felt a swell of pride to be a witness to such an event.

But Brienne was frozen, as if thinking this all an elaborate jape. Sandor called out, “Ah, do you want to be a Knight or not?” She met his eyes, and he nodded at her in encouragement.

She looked back to Jaime who repeated his command, “Kneel.”

Finally she complied, dropping to one knee. Jaime placed his sword on her right shoulder, “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be _brave_.” He moved the sword to her left shoulder, “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be _just_.” Back to her right shoulder, “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the _innocent_.” Lowering his sword he paused, seemingly choking on his own emotion, before regaining his composure, “Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Brienne rose, and everyone applauded her. Tormund hooted and hollered in a way that would be unseemly in the South but was perfectly acceptable to these Northerners. Brienne blushed at the attention as she returned to her seat next to Sandor. She had tears in her eyes, no doubt adding to her embarrassment. Without facing her Sandor addressed her, “Congratulations, Ser Wench.” Others came over to pat her on the back and make friendly japes.

The eating and drinking continued for over an hour before some of the guests made their exits. Sandor frequently looked at Sansa. She looked content though a bit wistful. She was quiet except when someone made conversation with her. It seemed she was trying carefully not to take any attention from the men and women around her.

_Always humble, little bird._

Sandor thought back to the Kings and Queens he’d known. _Always trying to be the center of attention._

It made him proud that despite her many accomplishments and great beauty, Sansa never wielded her position over anyone. She wore the title of Queen gracefully though it was clear she felt it a burden. At one point, Jon sat next to her and took her hand. He whispered something in her ear that made her smile, but it was pensive. Brienne also approached her, no doubt to express her gratitude.

When Lord Cassel sat next to her Sandor felt a pang of jealousy. She smiled at the young man, but with no more warmth than anyone else had received. What they spoke of Sandor could not discern. The young man looked happy, but the little bird’s face was fairly emotionless. Sandor forced his eyes away and immediately met Tyrion’s knowing smile.

_Fucking Imp._

Tyrion was generous enough to look away, returning his attention to whatever story Jaime was telling about his time on the road with Brienne and Podrick. Podrick seemed to be the focal point of the story as the boy’s face was a deep shade of crimson. Tormund was laughing loudly, and even Brienne was chuckling. Sandor sat back and drank his wine, relieved to see the Cassel lad had left not just Sansa’s side, but apparently the Hall altogether.

\----------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

After announcing Brienne’s appointment, Sansa began to feel anxious. Everyone else was merry – as they deserved to be – yet Sansa could not share their joy. Each passing day brought her further from the Long Night, but closer to the impending war against Daenerys… the war no one else but she knew was coming. Melisandre had eluded to it, and Sansa’s closest companions heard her desperate pleas to stop Daenerys before she could burn the world, yet it seemed to have drifted from their thoughts.

_I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter – all the other lambs are happily grazing but I’m screaming about the danger._

Yet she wasn’t screaming. She knew everyone had suffered so much hardship, she didn’t want to burden them with another looming threat. More practically, she needed them to focus on rebuilding and refortifying Winterfell.

_No, I alone will carry this knowledge for now. I alone will take action to protect my people from the Mad Fire Queen…_

Sansa truly did not know when the threat would come, though she imagined it would be after the winter snows had melted.

_Will she attack the North first, hoping to make us kneel so that we add to her numbers to siege King’s Landing?_

In the visions shown to her while in the dark place, Sansa saw burning but could not determine the precise location, only felt that it was _everywhere_. She saw buildings burning, fields burning, horses and livestock burning, and – most frighteningly – _people_ burning. Not just soldiers, but peasants as well. Men, women, and children all turned to ash in a matter of seconds by dragon fire.

“Good evening, my queen.” Sansa looked up to see the handsome brown eyes of Derik Cassel.

“Hello, my lord.”

“May I?” Derik gestured at the empty chair to Sansa’s right.

“Of course, please.”

Derik sat but did not break eye contact with Sansa, “What an evening! I never thought I’d see a woman knighted, but I can think of no woman – or man, for that matter – that is more deserving.”

“Indeed, Lady – I mean _Ser_ Brienne is the definition of a true knight.”

Derik nodded, but clearly had another subject on his mind, “We haven’t spoken much since… since the battle. How are you, Sansa?”

“I am well, thank you. You needn’t worry about me; I seem to have an uncanny knack for surviving,” Sansa attempted a smile but could feel it was unconvincing.

“No doubt, though it would please me to see you have an uncanny knack for _thriving.”_

Sansa shifted, feeling somehow under attack, though she knew that was not Derik’s intent.

“My lord, it is hard for anyone to thrive when we face one battle after another. I am confident we will soon find ourselves in peaceful times, then we can all focus on our families.”

“All of us except you?”

She felt herself blush, “I have a family – I have Jon and Theon, my friends here. I count myself among the lucky.”

“Indeed, all of us still breathing can count ourselves as lucky, but I can’t help but feel that after everything you’ve been through, you deserve _more_.”

“I am a Queen, I have my childhood home, I have my people, my friends, I’d be tempting the Gods’ wrath to demand _more.”_

“Perhaps I should speak more directly…”

“Perhaps you should,” she replied tersely.

His confidence wavered a moment, but he continued, “We all know and respect your wishes to remain unmarried for the time being, and to only marry for love, not political reasons…”

“Then you did not hear me. I never said I must marry for love, I said I will only marry when it is _my choice_ – not a choice forced on me by anyone else – friend or foe.”

“Yes, my apologies, I misspoke… all I am suggesting is that you consider what is best for the Kingdom and best for yourself.”

“And what might that be?”

“Marry. Have a King to share your burden, or at least a Consort. You needn’t give up your power. Choose someone who will care about you, who will help you, who will make you happy…”

“I can’t help but think you’re vying for the position…”

“I already made my desires known to you and many others. But this isn’t about me. It is about you. There are many good men in the North who would treat you well. You may not love him at first, but love can grow over time – your own parents proved this. Let him give you heirs. It is fine for you to name Jon your heir, but the people love _you_. They will follow your son without question.”

“And they won’t follow Jon?”

“They will, I’m sure. They all respect him, but they don’t love him as they love you. And beyond that, you and Jon are only two people. The last two Starks.”

“So it is the future of the Stark line you are concerned with?”

“That, and you… your future, your happiness.”

She couldn’t help the anger rising in her chest. She knew Derik was being reasonable, and as respectful as possible under the circumstances, but she felt offended by the entire conversation.

_Not offended, upset to be reminded of the one thing you can never give your people._

Forcing calmness into her voice she responded, “I thank you for your concern, my lord. You have given me much to consider, though now is not the time. I’ve only just recovered, and I’d prefer not to have this subject thrust upon me during what should be an enjoyable evening.”

He blushed but nodded, “You’re right, my apologies, my lady. I leave after the feast for Moat Cailin, and I know your time is precious. I should have found another opportunity, though. I bid you good evening and hope I have not ruined the festivities for you.”

He left without giving her opportunity to speak again. Truthfully the festivities were already ruined by her own fiery fears, though he only added to her angst.

Mercifully, the room had soon emptied of all the lords and ladies, and only the new knights and other men remained. She found Sandor’s eyes and he understood her silent call. He approached her and offered his arm. She bid goodnight to the remaining guests and let him lead her out of the room.

She was exhausted upon reaching her door, but gave one final order, “A shipment will arrive at Castle Cerwyn at dawn in three days, please see to a wagon guard.”

“As you say, my lady.”

“Good evening, then.”

“Good evening, my lady.”

She saw disappointment in his eyes but was in no mood to offer comfort. Everywhere she turned there was someone or something needing her care, her attention, her energy, and she felt completely drained of all three.


	69. Goals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa plans for the future even as she fears for it.

**Sansa**

The days following the ceremony were painful for Sansa. She sat in the Great Hall and listened to petitions from the widows of Winterfell’s fallen soldiers for six hours straight each day. Those who did not have employment were offered jobs in Winterfell or the nearby Castle Cerwyn which was also understaffed. Each was also given a small amount of coin which Sansa was shamefully reluctant to part with. Their funds were dwindling by the day. Winterfell already owed a significant sum to Lord Manderly of White Harbor, though he had written off much of it after Sansa and her men defended the North from the army of the dead.

_Come spring we will have our own crops… we just need to survive until then._

But it was hard to look forward to the warm season when the winter snows were all that protected her lands from invasion by southern and eastern armies.

One evening Sansa invited Jon, Tyrion, Tormund, Val, and Samwell to sup with her in her private solar. Samwell was clearly honored to be included, as he kept stumbling over his own words of thanks – especially since Sansa extended the invitation to his _friend_ Gilly, as well. Sandor stood as Sansa’s shield; by now his men were more than capable of thwarting attacks, and they’d be accompanied by some of Castle Cerwyn’s own guards that were still at Winterfell but anxious for a chance to see their families.

The group spoke of pleasant matters as they dined. Gilly updated them all on her son’s latest accomplishments – he recently took his first steps. Tormund joked that soon he’d be carrying his own war axe. Sansa often forgot that Gilly had been a Wildling – she was so mild-mannered compared to every other woman Sansa knew that had lived north of the wall.

After dessert was served, they sipped wine as Sansa addressed the reason for their meeting.

“As you all know, Winterfell has suffered setback after setback. Until the snows melt, we continue to be largely reliant on imports to sustain our people. These imports are costly. Of late I’ve been thinking of ways to generate income during winter months. I believe the felling of the Wall at Eastwatch presents us with an opportunity. The Haunted Forest is a vast area of dense woods. I’d like to begin a forestry and lumber operation there. The lumber can be sent south to the Northern Houses and can be shipped out of Eastwatch to trade to Braavos. Jon, I’d like you to oversee the startup of this operation.”

Most nodded but Jon seemed to have a concern, “That is a sound idea, but it would mean you do not intend to repair the wall at Eastwatch – am I correct?”

“You are, brother. Right now we do not have the manpower to restore such a large section of the Wall. We will have to hope that the northern threat is indeed permanently eliminated as I believe it has been with the Night King’s death. As a precaution, I would task your builders with fortifying the castle and building stone or wooden walls to protect from both the north and south. Your men of the Watch are more than capable I’m sure, but if you must, borrow men from Last Hearth or the Dreadfort.”

Val nodded, “You can take Tormund, keep him out of my hair for a while.”

“Hah, you wish!” Tormund snorted.

After a few minutes of banter, Sansa continued. “I’d also like to expand our fishing enterprises. Weeping Water is plentiful with salmon and trout that the Boltons used to harvest and trade not just with other Northern Houses, but, during winter, with Braavos. Tormund, Val – Lord Manderly has generously offered fishermen to help teach your people the operations. Jon, I’d also ask you to expand your fishing operations – you will not catch only enough to sustain the men of the Watch, but also to trade south and east.” Jon nodded his agreement.

“Lastly, we can also tap the lands north of the wall for hunting grounds, but will not trade furs south of Moat Cailin, for obvious reasons. Work with the Flints – they have unparalleled expertise in hunting in mountainous terrain, which will help you tap the Frostfangs. I understand those mountains are abundant in black bear, wolves, deer, horned sheep, and mountain goats.”

Tormund nodded, “You know your game, Red Wolf.”

She ignored the compliment, “I admit my aspirations go beyond what I’ve already stated. These are the starting points; with the income they generate, I intend to build whaling vessels as well as warships to protect our ports of trade. Of course, this will take time, but it will be worth the years of effort. I intend to see the North not just survive but thrive during winters – just as it did before Torrhen Stark knelt to Aegon I Targaryen. I wish the North to never be idle again, to never be reliant on the South or East.”

Realizing she was at risk of making the type of lofty speech she so despised, Sansa stopped herself. “Well, enough said. Best to focus on the present instead of dreaming of the future.”

Tyrion looked at her sympathetically, “It is good to have goals to work toward, my lady.”

She smiled, “Well that is one thing I’ve no shortage of.”


	70. A Gesture of Gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives a gift.

**Sansa**

Sansa and Tyrion stood in the courtyard reading the letter for the third time.

Sansa had been summoned to the Hunter’s Gate by Steward Sedgwell who said there was matter requiring her attention.

_Yet another matter needing my attention._

Tyrion, who was with her in her solar at the time, waddled along beside her and Sandor.

After exiting through the gate, Sansa saw Winterfell guards surrounding several dozen unknown men and seven wagons brimming with supplies. Sansa noted her archers atop the eastern wall stood ready to rain arrows down on the unknown men.

“Address Queen Sansa,” Sedgwell ordered a young man who was dressed as a page, not a soldier.

“Your grace, we come bearing gifts from my lord, Tywin Lannister. He wished me to deliver this letter to you directly.” He held out a sealed scroll. Sandor grabbed it and handed it to Sansa so she would not need to step closer to the man.

Sansa noted the red wax seal bore the emblem of the Lord of Casterly Rock, not the Hand of the Queen. She opened it with her small dagger and, with a nod, permitted Tyrion to read the letter as she did.

> _Lady Stark, Queen of the Northern Kingdom,_
> 
> _Your and your people’s heroic actions will no doubt be remembered through the ages, though I fear few south of Moat Cailin will ever express the gratitude you deserve. Though saddened by that reality, I am proud to be among the grateful few._
> 
> _Please accept the gifts contained in these wagons, inadequate as they may be in contrast to the magnitude of your sacrifice._
> 
> _Knowing your time in the Capital gave you much cause to mistrust the Lannister name, I encourage you to choose at random some of the food and wine I’ve provided. The young man standing before you is Tyrek Lannister; he has been instructed to act as your royal taster to prove that what I’ve sent has not been tainted. Either of my sons, who I know to be in your service, can confirm his identity. Though I hope they would also tell you that Tywin Lannister would never be so craven as to poison his enemies, and, my lady, I do not count you among my enemies, even if that is how you view me._
> 
> _The provisions I’ve sent are in thanks for your great efforts which I know very likely saved not just the North, but all of Westeros. As I’ve already said, they are inadequate, and I hope someday to express my thanks to you in person._
> 
> _(Speaking briefly as Hand to Queen Cersei, I’ve convinced her grace to extend the previously stated timeline by two months, in light of your recent battle, though she remains adamant that you appear before her to swear fealty.)_
> 
> _Please let me know if there is anything I can do to aid you or your Kingdom. Anything within my power I shall do, gladly._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Tywin Lannister_
> 
> _Lord of Casterly Rock_
> 
> _Warden of the West_
> 
> _P.S. Among the provisions you will find one chest of gold dragons. Please use or distribute at your discretion. The guards are unaware of the crate’s contents, but Tyrek can identify it to you. I wish it were more but did not want to chance sending a larger sum over this distance._

After some minutes of silence Sansa finally addressed Tyrion, “Why do I feel like I’m being courted?”

“Hmpf, I dare say my father has gone either soft or senile.”

Sansa addressed the page, “You are Tyrek Lannister?”

The man nodded.

“How did you travel here?”

“By ship, your grace, from Casterly Rock. We came ashore at Sea Dragon Point then traveled east through the Wolfswood.”

“That is a difficult journey by wagon.”

“It was your grace, but the trails were passable enough.”

“It would appear so. Would you be kind enough to point out the chest indicated by Lord Lannister in his letter?”

It took a few minutes for Tyrek to find and uncover the crate. Sansa tasked some guards with bringing it to Winterfell’s safe.

“Lord Sedgwell, please take random samplings of wine and food from each of the wagons and prepare a meal for Lord Tyrek and his guards. They must be hungry from their journey.”

“Of course, my lady,” The old steward beckoned over some servants to help with the task.

“Please see that they are given guest quarters. Ser Brienne, these men are to be guarded at all times but treated hospitably nonetheless.”

…

Back in her solar with Jaime, Tyrion, and Sandor, Sansa paced back and forth. Her companions were clearly waiting for her to speak first, but all she could offer was a question, “What do you make of this, Lord Tyrion?”

“I wish I had a definitive answer, my lady. My suspicion is that he continues to seek an alliance with the North. It’s only a matter of time before Daenerys launches her attack on Westeros.”

“So he is trying to win my favor? Buy my loyalty?”

Jaime spoke now, “Perhaps that is part of his motive, but my father, despite his lack of warmth, is known to give credit where credit is due. He is generous with his retainers. I believe the words in his letter are true, even if there were more left unstated. A Lannister always pays his debts, and in this case, he feels indebted to you for saving the realm.”

Sansa nodded, “Then, assuming his guards don’t fall sick in the next day, we will take it as what it appears to be – a gesture of gratitude – and no more.”

“Do you intend to return his correspondence?” Tyrion asked, seemingly nervous to say the words.

“It would be most impolite not to, but I shall make no promises, implied or explicit.”


	71. Mint Jelly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice day takes a turn for the worse.

**Sandor**

Sandor could barely sleep the prior night in anticipation of this day. As he escorted Sansa to her chambers after the evening meal, she had informed him of her need to travel to Winter Town the next morning. She asked him to have their mounts ready by nine o’clock and retrieve her at that time.

_My mount, and her mount. No other company. Just the two of us._

He was both excited and nervous, but as usual his own emotions made him feel a fool. The little bird had been so occupied since the battle that he had barely any time alone with her. Even as he escorted her around the castle grounds she was frequently approached by some servant in need of her attention. They’d never spoken of the last night they shared – the night he reacted shamefully after seeing her scars. The only reason he hadn’t gone mad was because it was clear that she was thoroughly busy and exhausted. She addressed him warmly, and he had no reason to think she was mad at him, but he did not know what the future held for their relationship. When she finally had free time would they return to their amorous activities? Or had he burned that bridge for good?

As they rode side-by-side, he watched the tension slip out of her shoulders. Her arms and hips relaxed, and she tilted her head back to take in the morning sun. Sandor admired her horse: a bay mare with dark legs and a jagged white stripe marking her face.

“What’s her name?” Sandor asked, desperate to break the silence.

Sansa looked at him a moment before realizing he was referring to her horse, “Lightning.”

“Mmm, good name for a horse. Good looking mare.”

“Thank you, she was a gift from Lord Glover after we retook Winterfell.”

“Is she so named because of her marking or her speed?”

“Both.”

“Mmm.”

The silence continued for another minute, though Sansa seemed unbothered by it.

“I haven’t a chance to tell you, but the plans you spoke of the other night – the fishing, hunting, forestry… they’re good ideas, girl. Your father would be proud.”

She chuckled, “My _mother_ would be prouder. My father was a good man, a good Lord, but she was much more entrepreneurial than he. She was the one who insisted on expanding the Glass Gardens. She would whisper into his ear ideas for negotiating trade agreements or increasing rental rates from our tenant farmers. She was by no means cutthroat, but my father would have let rates remain unchanged for a decade, when other lords raised rates at least every other year.”

“So she’s the one who taught you all this? Running a castle, a kingdom.”

“I suppose, though she never made it feel like a lesson. She had a way of teaching by example. She’d ask me to walk with her for the company. Simple-minded as I was, I never realized how much I was learning. I suppose I didn’t realize it at all until I got to the Vale.”

“The Vale?”

“Yes. For all his faults, Petyr wanted me to learn business and politics. I suppose it was only so that it would one day benefit him, but the lessons have benefited me, nonetheless. With any luck, I’ll use those lessons to beat him at his own game – someday…”

Sandor nodded but was uncertain what she meant. Sansa had never indicated any plans to oppose Littlefinger. She seemed content just to be out of his grasp.

“This someday – you expect it to be soon?”

“I doubt that. We will soon be dealing with Daenerys Targaryen, I fear. Or Cersei Lannister. Or both. Petyr is not to be trusted, but I know his motivations. He wishes to be my ally, not my enemy.”

“Wishes to be more than your _ally_ ,” Sandor grumbled.

“Indeed, and as long as that is his ultimate objective, he is not a threat.”

“Speaking of threats, you’ve not said much about Daenerys since the day you…”

“Came back from the dead? I know. Her name is not on my tongue, but it is very much on my mind. Unfortunately we once again must focus on rebuilding Winterfell. If and when we learn of her plans to move against us, we will figure out our response.”

“Aye, but it seemed to me you wanted to take preemptive action… eliminate her before she has a chance to threaten us.”

“Indeed, when she stood before me alone, unarmed, that was the best course of action. But she is back in Essos with her dragons and her armies. I’m not fool enough to think we’d stand a chance attacking her in her territory. And as for sending an assassin – it doesn’t quite sit right with me.”

“So you’ve got your mother’s pragmatism and your father’s sense of honor. Not the worst traits to inherit, I must admit.”

She turned to face him and for the first time all morning offered a smile that warmed him better than the rays of the sun, “They’ve gotten me this far.”

Seeing they had almost arrived at their destination, Sandor took his chance, “Little bird, wait.”

She pulled up her reins, “What is it, Sandor?”

_Fuck, now you’ve got to say something._

“We haven’t spoken… about that night… you haven’t given me a chance to apologize…”

“I don’t need an apology, I read your letter.”

“And?”

“And it was quite sweet.”

“Sweet?” he felt himself flush. The letter was many things – heartfelt, honest, dirty, confessional, but _sweet?_

“Yes, in your own way.”

“So where does that leave us little bird?”

She sighed, “I’ve been wondering that myself. I won’t deny I care for you; I’ve already told you I love you… I just worry about whether you feel the same way, or whether you just _think_ you do.”

He stared at her, dumfounded, “ _You_ worry about whether _I_ return your feelings? Little bird, I know you’re not dumb, but are you certain you’re not blind?”

“I am not referring to our _appearances_ Sandor, I know you doubt my attraction to you, no matter what I do to prove it…”

“So what is it _you_ doubt?”

“That you truly love me, for who I am today, not who I was in King’s Landing. That this affection you have isn’t just a manifestation of your desire to _atone_ … You already told me that’s what motivates you now that Gregor is dead.”

Sandor shook his head and bit his tongue. She reached for his hand.

“Sandor, you are the most loyal man I’ve ever met. And I know you’ll disagree, but you’re also one of the most honorable – at least to those you deem worthy of your honor. Your reaction to seeing my scars – or rather the _cause_ of your reaction – only proves that you still carry this guilt over what you think you should have done to help me all those years ago. I don’t want your loyalty out of a sense of obligation; I don’t want your care because you think I’m a broken thing…”

“Shut up.”

She recoiled at his words, “Excuse me?”

“Shut up.”

“Sandor! I—”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence. He grabbed her by both arms and yanked her onto his lap and kissed her. His kiss was forceful. She wasn’t taking this time, he was giving.

He did not relent, he deepened the kiss, and her lips eventually yielded to his. He invaded her mouth with his tongue, the tongue that could cut down any man with the sharpness of steel, but which was always impotent to form the words needed to convey to her his feelings.

_If my tongue can’t speak the words, it can at least show you…_

He was still gripping her arms tightly, but she did not resist or complain. Eventually he loosened his grip and her arms immediately snaked around his neck. They continued kissing for blissful minutes. When he finally withdrew her lips were swollen and red, her cheeks pink.

_Bloody beautiful._

“You are the least broken thing I’ve ever met, and there is nothing unselfish about what I want from you. I’m a fucking starving man and you’re a juicy pear; if I need to kill an entire fucking village to get to you that’s what I’ll do. And once I have you, I intend to take everything you have to give, and then some. But don’t worry, I’ll give as good as I get. I want all of you, little bird, do you understand?”

“Yes, but Sandor, I’m a—”

“Shut up. I know you’re a bloody queen. That’s not what I mean. I want all of _you_ , Sansa – your body, your heart, your songs, your scars – all of it. I don’t care one whit about your kingdom, your lands, or your titles. And if you object one more time, I’m going to take you up against that tree and fuck some sense into you, I don’t care if the whole bloody town sees it. They’ll know you’re mine, and I’ll cut down anyone who dares to disagree. Now I’ll ask again: _do you understand_?”

“Hum,” it was supposed to be an acknowledgement, but all that came out was a whimper. The lust in her eyes was all the answer he needed, but he pressed on.

“Are you wet, little bird?”

She blushed but nodded, seemingly afraid to lie.

He grinned, not caring that he looked like a fox in the hen house, “Good. Don’t fucking bathe when we get back to the castle. I want to taste you tonight – _you_ , and not some flowery soap. I’m going to drink every drop of you until I’ve sucked you dry, and then I’ll whisper more dirty things in your ear, so you get wet for me all over again. You’ll never dare call me _honorable_ again.”

She nodded.

“Good girl,” with a gentle pat on the backside he nodded for her to get back on her horse, and she did.

He fought the desire to smirk with pride, “Now, what business do you have here?”

“What? Oh… I suppose I just wanted to check on things, everyone’s been back for a couple days now. I want to see if there is anything they need. I also have some accounts to settle and need to see Winnie the seamstress and then Lisbeth at the alehouse. She’s with child.”

Sandor accompanied the little bird on each of her stops, glad once again for the cloak which hid his arousal. Every time he started to soften, the little bird caught his eye, and her shy smile would set him ablaze all over again. He resigned to take himself in hand once they were back in the castle. He needed to relieve this pressure or else he’d spill himself like a green boy the moment any part of her touched any part of him.

At the seamstress’ shop, he saw the woman he assumed to be Winnie embrace Sansa in a way that any other Queen would have considered far too familiar.

“My dear child! It’s been too long!” the woman inspected Sansa as if looking for signs of ill health.

“It hasn’t been _that_ long, Winnie.”

“But it certainly feels that way.” Noticing Sandor the buxom older woman’s eyes went wide. Sandor compulsively smoothed his hair over his facial scars but, apparently, they were not what had drawn the woman’s eye. She strode right up to him and reached up to squeeze both his biceps, “Where did you find such a man, m’lady?”

Sansa laughed, “He found me, Winnie. He’s an old friend.”

“Then where have you been hiding him? Gods, I’d need two tapes to take his measure.”

The woman unabashedly roved her eyes over Sandor from top to bottom and left to right, “He the one you had that fine doublet made for, m’lady?”

“The same.”

“Hmpf, I figured it were a fat one, but he’s got not a lick of fat on ‘im.”

“I’m sure Sandor is grateful for your praise, but I fear he’s a bit shy.”

“Hmpf, what cause have you got to be shy, m’lord?”

“Not a lord.”

“Alright Ser…”

“Not a Ser.”

“Well whatever ye are, you’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. Shyness is wasted on one like you.”

“I thank ye.”

“If you want to thank me—”

“Alright, Winnie! His words will have to suffice. I’d like to place an order now, I’m in need of some fabrics.”

Winnie finally turned back to her lady, shaking her head in disbelief as she walked back behind her wooden counter.

Sansa placed her order and the pair exited the small shop, Winnie shouting after them, “Anytime you’re in need of fine clothing, Ser, you come find me, I offer a special discount for friends of m’lady!”

He waved but hurried the little bird to their next stop.

“Sandor, my legs aren’t as long as yours, slow down.”

“It’s not safe, I fear we might be mauled by a mountain lion!”

Sansa laughed merrily, “You should learn to accept the praise of a harmless old woman.”

“Harmless? You didn’t feel how hard she gripped my arms! I think she wanted to rip them off and keep them as trophies.”

“Well, I can’t blame her,” she lifted an eyebrow as she directed her words at his body instead of his face.

He rolled his eyes at the little bird, “There must be something in the water here.”

Their last stop was the alehouse where twice Sandor had spoken to the barkeep – first to pry information, second to receive advice.

“Hello Roger!” Sansa beamed at the old barkeep.

“Lady Sansa! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’ve come to see Lisbeth, though I’m very glad to see you here as well. How are you faring?”

“Well enough. The repairs to your castle keep men busy through the day, so it’s a bit slow…”

Sandor looked around. Slow was an understatement: the place was _empty_.

“…but it also means they’re extra thirsty at night! Place can barely hold everyone; some men get their ales and stand outside.”

“I’m glad to hear it, is Lisbeth here?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. Morning sickness lasts straight through lunchtime for her, though midwife says it’s not uncommon. Can I deliver a message for her?”

“Not a message, other than my well wishes of course, but I’d be grateful if you could deliver this,” Sansa handed over a neatly wrapped package, “It’s a sleeping dress, with a little extra room in the middle.”

“How thoughtful of you, m’lady. And it’ll go to good use. Girl’s finally showing and every day I swear she gets bigger and bigger.”

“Oh, Roger, I’m being rude. Allow me to introduce you to my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.”

“His name is new, but I’ve seen his face a couple times. Didn’t know he was m’lady’s shield, must be a humble sort.”

“Indeed, though he will deny it to his last breath!”

“Hah! Then definitely humble. Can I interest you in a meal and an ale, m’lady? Have some cold duck and mint jelly, if it please you.”

“What say you, Sandor? Shall we have a quick lunch before returning?”

“Aye, if it please you.”

The pair sat at a table in the center of the empty tavern. A few minutes later Roger appeared with two horns of ale and two plates of duck, with sides of roast turnips.

Sandor didn’t realize how hungry he was until he smelled the meat. He’d never particularly fancied duck, but Roger – or whoever the cook was – had seasoned it quite well.

They ate in comfortable silence, though whenever they met each other’s eyes a small jolt passed between them. Twice Sandor looked up to find Roger smiling to himself, and Sandor wondered if he had pieced together that Sansa was the ‘lady friend’ who he had grumbled about some months back.

As they were nearly done eating two men walked in. Sansa turned to look when they entered. The taller man met her eyes and spoke, “Your grace, what a pleasure to find you here. I’ve been hearing nothing but tales of your valor for more than a sennight and hoped for the opportunity to thank you in person.”

Sandor looked to Sansa, who was appraising the men curiously, “No thanks are needed, though I appreciate the sentiment. Might I ask your names, my good men?”

_She doesn’t recognize them._

“I’m Tom, and my friend here is Maxwell.” The other man bowed his head but did not speak.

“Which House do you hail from?”

“House Glover, your grace.”

“Then it is I who should be thanking you. Roger, please pour these men some ales, on Winterfell’s account.”

Sandor noted that all the warmth in her voice when speaking to Winnie and Roger was gone. In its place was her icy tone of court. The warmth was also gone from her eyes when she turned back around to face him. She seemed to be trying to tell him something without speaking. _What do you see little bird?_

He studied the two men sitting at the bar. The taller one who had done all the talking was blond haired and had a neatly trimmed beard. The shorter man – Maxwell, was a bit wider than his friend – with dark hair and sun-leathered skin. The clothing they wore bore no sigils or identifying colors, but that was not uncommon in the North, Sandor had noticed.

The men kept to themselves but only a few minutes after they entered, three more men entered. Sandor noticed a quick glance pass between them and the pair at the bar, before they sat at a table two down from where Sansa and Sandor sipped their ales. Sansa looked at them, and her eyes darted back to Sandor. He nodded nearly imperceptibly. He did not know what specifically she saw to raise her alarm, but he could _feel_ it – he could _smell_ it.

Roger spoke to the men at the table, but his words were meant for Sandor, “Well this certainly is a day for new faces. Can I get you fellows some ale?” The men nodded.

_He doesn’t know them, either_.

With all the soldiers here from other houses, it was not unusual to see strange faces, but clearly both Roger and Sansa saw something in these five men that concerned them. Sandor again took in the new arrivals. All three men were of above-average height and muscular build from what he could see. All had dark hair and skin, and like the first two men, they wore swords.

A few minutes passed without any of the men speaking except the first one – the blond man who called himself Tom. He seemed to be going out of his way to make friendly conversation with Maxwell, who only smiled and nodded, and occasionally chuckled. The three men at the table sipped their ales in silence.

Five men. One talkative – the fair one; four silent – the dark ones… all with swords.

Looking between Sansa, Roger, and the unknown men, it finally hit Sandor: four men of dark skin. Four men from the South, or the East, _not_ of the North.

Sandor began calculating his odds. Three against one was child’s play for him. Four against one was a challenge, but achievable. Five against one was a toss of the coin – if these men were skilled with their swords, his odds were not good. He looked at Roger. The man was old but appeared fit. If he could take out one of the men, at least knock him over the head, Sandor’s odds would improve greatly.

But they weren’t here for Sandor, they were here for his little bird. They didn’t need to kill him to achieve their mission. They only needed to get to her.

Less than a minute had passed since the men entered, and he knew they would not delay very long – every second that passed was an opportunity for more men to enter – Northern soldiers, perhaps, who would gladly come to their Queen’s aid.

He noticed the little bird’s hand move beneath the table.

_She’s reaching for her dagger._

Looking at Roger, he saw the man’s right hand was also out of sight while his left hand continued wiping the already clean counter. Seeing the strange men were not looking at him, he chanced a wink at Sandor, which Sandor returned with a slight drop of his chin. The two men who’d entered first each laid a copper on the counter and rose. Sandor’s right hand went to his pommel while his left stayed wrapped around the now empty horn. The three other men stood.

_And so it begins._

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

She didn’t look again at the five men. She knew Sandor knew, and she knew he was ready. She looked only at his eyes, waiting.

She heard the men stand and it took all her might not to run for the door. She knew she was safer with Sandor. For all she knew, there were five more men outside waiting for her to flee right into their arms.

She dropped her gaze to Sandor’s hand, the one clasped around a horn of ale. The one that had caressed her cheek, that had pleasured her body… the one that would soon kill men, for her, again. She waited. As soon as she saw that hand move, she would move.

She forced herself to breathe, and as if signaled by the sound of her exhale, it began. Sandor’s hand flew off the horn and Sansa leapt up and spun around the table, at the exact moment Sandor threw it over to create a barrier between them and the men lunging at them.

His sword was drawn, and his shield arm pushed Sansa behind him. Two men had lunged at him, while two others split off to either side. The fifth man stayed close to the bar with his eyes on Roger.

Sansa felt entirely inadequate with nothing but her Bolton dagger. Without moving her head she looked around her for anything that could be used as a weapon. The walls were decorated with a variety of game – Roger was an avid hunter, as she knew from past conversations. There were ducks, a bobcat, and a few buck heads mounted to thick slabs of varnished wood – and they were all out of reach unless she climbed on a chair.

_The hearth behind us, I know there are pokers beside it._

After what felt like an eternity, one of the men finally made a move, jabbing at Sandor with his sword. Sandor deflected it easily and returned his own jab. The other man stepped forward, and Sandor clashed steel with both of them while Sansa took a few steps back. The men on either side cautiously advanced toward her, unable to move in a straight line for fear of falling within the reach of Sandor’s longsword.

Suddenly the sound of breaking glass stole their attention. Roger must have thrown a bottle at the man closest to him. The man drew his sword, but Roger blocked it with a large wooden club. As he pushed the man’s sword down with the weight of the club, he brought up a heavy pitcher and smashed it over his head, stunning him. Sansa used the distraction as an opportunity to jump back and grab two of the iron pokers. Pocketing her dagger, she held one in each hand. The two men continued approaching her, but one dropped back when he saw that Sandor had killed one of his companions. He took up the man’s place, continuing to fight Sandor two-on-one while trying to steer him further from Sansa.

Sansa returned her eyes to her own attacker – the tall blond man, “Don’t be foolish, my lady. You’ve cheated death once, it won’t happen twice, I promise a swift death.”

At his last word he swung his sword, catching Sansa by surprise, though luckily her reaction was quick enough, and she deflected his blow with the poker in her left hand. Swinging the right one wildly she wasn’t even close to striking him, but it managed to send him back a step. Without hesitation he lunged at her again and again she swung at him, this time hitting him in his left hand. He yelped but did not drop his sword. Sansa heard a grunt and a squeal as Sandor felled another man. Further away she could hear Roger struggling with the man at the bar. They seemed to be exchanging blows by the sound of it.

The blond man lunged again but surprised Sansa by swinging low at the last minute after indicating he was going high. His sword caught the front of Sansa’s skirts, missing the flesh underneath by inches, if that. He gave her no time to recover as he swung again, backhanded. He was relentless, confident she didn’t have the strength to kill him with the pokers. She continued blocking his swings but was being backed up to the wall. His confidence, however, made him reckless. His swings were wide, and Sansa lunged to get inside his radius. Dropping one poker she drew her dagger and went to stab his neck. He blocked it with his shied arm and dropped his own sword to grab his dagger. Forgetting about the poker in her left hand he left himself exposed and she drove the poker into his belly. The man screamed but it seemed to be only a flesh wound.

Rage in his eyes, he slammed Sansa against the stone wall. She had to drop both her dagger and poker to hold his dagger hand away, but it would only buy her time as he brought his free hand up to her neck.

_Death by blade or strangulation? What a choice._

Sansa kicked desperately at his knees and groin which prevented the man from putting all his weight into his arms, but it didn’t matter, her world was getting small as gray fog filled in the periphery of her vision. Instinctively her hands went to claw at the one he had wrapped around her throat.

_Dagger it is…_

But suddenly she dropped to the ground, landing hard on her knees. She coughed and sucked in air as her vision finally came back. The blond man was on the floor, dead, with a puddle of blood quickly spreading around him. Sandor knelt down and said words that Sansa couldn’t hear – the blood pumping back into her head was deafening. She waved him away and managed to croak out “Roger”. Sandor went to help the barkeep, as Sansa finally was able to stand.

Approaching the bar Sandor yanked the man off of Roger and held him up by his neck just as his companion had just done to Sansa.

“Who sent you?” Sandor growled through gritted teeth.

The man said nothing. Sandor reached down and snapped his wrist back, the sound making Sansa want to retch. The dark-skinned man screamed but did not speak.

“Who sent you?” Sandor slammed the still-quiet man into the floor and snapped back his arm, breaking it at the elbow. The man screamed in agony, and this time Sansa did retch – bringing up duck and ale tinged green from the mint jelly. Sandor and Roger seemed oblivious to her state.

With one foot on the man’s kneecap, Sandor began pressing down.

Finally the man spoke, but what he muttered was not the common tongue. Obviously pleading for mercy, his words sounded like little more than grunts. _Slave tongue._

Sandor looked up at her, “Fucking Dragon Queen.” She nodded.

_Daenerys sent assassins to kill me! On literally the same day I told Sandor I’d never stoop to that level of cowardice._

Sandor looked at the man but relieved some of the pressure on his knee. “Daenerys?”

The man nodded and called out, “Mhysa!”

Without hesitation Sandor drove his sword through the man’s throat, killing him instantly.


	72. Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor salvage their day.

**Jon**

Jon was supping privately with the surviving officers of the Night’s Watch when a red-faced page burst through the doors. The boy managed to speak while panting, “M’lord, your sister, the Queen, approaches…” the boy pointed in the direction of the East Gate but Jon didn’t hear the rest of his words as he was already halfway out of the keep, with Ghost at his side. 

He arrived at the gate just as Sansa and Clegane were riding through on their horses. Clegane’s face and armor were covered in blood, as was Sansa’s neck. Brienne had arrived and was helping Sansa dismount.

“Sansa, are you alright?!”

“I’m fine, Jon. We’re fine.” She looked at Clegane, but the man’s eyes held nothing but rage.

“Please, gather Lord Tyrion and Ser Jaime, meet us in my solar.”

Giving him no chance to reply she walked swiftly toward the main keep with a menacing Clegane, who left boot shaped impressions in his wake.

When Jon arrived in Sansa’s solar along with Tyrion, Brienne, and Jaime he noticed that neither Sansa nor Clegane had taken the time to wash the blood from their skin. Instead they stood gulping wine in a seemingly futile effort to calm their nerves.

“Sansa, what happened?”

Clegane answered, “Fucking dragon bitch, that’s what.”

“What?!” Tyrion responded.

“That white-haired cunt sent five men to kill Sansa! Nearly fucking succeeded, too!”

Clegane was pacing, running blood stained fingers through his black hair.

“But he didn’t,” Sansa added, “that’s what matters.”

“No, that’s not what matters! What matters is that she sent them, and she’ll send more, and then more, and then more…”

“What do you mean she sent five men to kill Sansa?” Jaime asked in disbelief.

“How do I explain this? Hmm, _men_ – you know, those hairy versions of women with dicks between their legs? Five of them,” he counted on his fingers, “One, two, three, four, five!”

“Sandor would you please calm down so we can talk about this?” Sansa pleaded.

“Nothing to talk about. She struck first – give me ten men and a ship, let me finish what she stared.”

Tyrion snorted, “Oh I suppose all seven feet of you is going to _sneak_ past her armies and guards?”

“Then who, Imp? The giant warrior maiden? The golden-handed knight? Or would you like to volunteer, the most famous dwarf in the Seven Kingdoms!?”

Tyrion ignored him, “My lady, how do you know these men were sent by Daenerys and not someone else… someone like my _sister_?”

“They were dark-skinned and only one of them spoke the common tongue.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Cersei to set it up to _look_ like Daenerys was behind the plot,” Tyrion replied.

“That doesn’t make sense, Tyrion. Cersei has had all this time to send assassins for me. No, she wants to look in my eyes when she kills me. She wants to get me to confess to killing Joffrey.”

“I hate to agree, but Lady Sansa is right,” Jaime nodded, “Cersei is not above sending assassins, but not under these circumstances. She is still hoping Sansa will be dumb enough to come to King’s Landing to bend the knee, where Cersei will be able to unleash all her rage on our Queen.”

Jon chimed in, “Did they say anything?”

Clegane answered, “The one I left alive, I broke him down and he begged for his life, but he did it in a tongue I don’t recognize, sounded like gibberish.”

Sansa nodded, “A slave tongue, I suspect. When Sandor said ‘Daenerys’ the man nodded and said another word I didn’t recognize… sounded like Mee-suh.”

“Mhysa?!” Tyrion practically shouted, “It means ‘Mother’ in the slave tongue Ghiscari. It’s what the freed slaves and many other of her followers call Daenerys.”

Brienne shook her head, “I don’t understand, why kill Lady Sansa? Doesn’t she know it will just start a war with the North?”

“Does she?” Sansa raised her eyebrows, “Daenerys herself played a role in helping defeat the wights. She knows the North is weak right now, with no desire to enter into another war if it can be avoided. And she knows Jon – my heir – is, or at least _was_ fond of her.”

Jaime nodded, “And her plan was probably to have you killed without leaving witnesses. Never knowing for certain whether it was Cersei or Daenerys who was behind the attacks, if the North had to choose to swear fealty to one or the other, I think we all know it would be Daenerys.”

Clegane, who was now wiping blood from his face with a dampened handkerchief, agreed, “Aye, explains why they waited for it to be just Sansa and me… well, and Roger.”

“Roger?! Is he alright?” Jon knew the old man well.

“Yes, just a few scrapes and bruises – though we should send him some coin for damages and cleaning,” Sansa blushed as if embarrassed that blood was spilled on her behalf.

“So what now, what will be your response?” Clegane sounded desperate.

Sansa shook her head, “No response. Obviously, we should put in place some additional protections. Brienne, please make sure all the guards know to be on the lookout for anyone of darker complexion. Once our guests from the other Houses leave in a few days it will be easier to spot any strangers. We should also keep all four gates barred at all times.” Brienne nodded.

“I’ll ask Theon and Ser Beric to join Sandor as my personal guards, and I won’t leave the castle grounds unless with an even larger escort.”

“Keep Ghost with you as well, sister. He can sleep in your chambers at night.”

“Thank you, Jon, but he belongs with you.”

Jon shrugged, “He likes you better.”

Sansa smiled, “If it will put you at ease. Thank you, Jon.”

Just then heavy footsteps approached. Everyone except Sansa and Tyrion drew their swords, but the man who barged in was no assassin – only a madman.

“Red Wolf! I heard what happened. Where are the fuckers? Tell me you saved me some!”

“I’m afraid not, Tormund. Blame my shield.”

“How many?” Tormund directed at Sandor.

“Five, but I had help.”

“From who?”

“The tough old barkeep and the _Red Wolf_ kept two of them occupied long enough.”

Jon noticed Sansa blush, but she did nothing to refute Clegane’s version of events.

\-----------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor returned to his chambers and ordered a bath while Jon and Theon stayed with Sansa. His hands shook as he pictured the little bird’s face turning purple as the blond fucker squeeze the life out of her. He knew the others were right – any attempt at retaliation had little chance of success – but that didn’t stop him from wanting to board the next ship to Essos and kill the Dragon Queen with his bare hands.

The day that started so well had ended so dreadfully.

_Could’ve been worse, dog. You know that._

As he scrubbed the blood from his hands, neck, and head he kept reliving the fight over and over again. The men were good – well trained and with sharp steel. They were not some half-rate sellswords. It made him shudder to think they had been watching he and Sansa for the whole morning, and possibly longer. He wondered if there were more hiding out nearby – a second group in case the first failed.

He somehow managed to fall asleep for a brief nap, knowing he’d need it to stay alert through the night, which he intended to do. It was nightfall by the time he emerged and knocked on Sansa’s door. She too had bathed and changed her clothing at some point. With the man’s blood washed from her neck he could clearly see the hand-shaped bruise on her lily-white skin.

_I killed him too fast, should have taken my time, or like Tormund said, saved him for later._

Sansa must have noticed the change in his demeanor, “I’m fine Sandor, really… thanks to you.”

He reached out and gently stroked his thumb over her neck before dropping his hand when Theon and Jon appeared behind her.

“Shall I escort you to the dining hall, my lady?”

“Thank you, but I’m rather tired. I’ll have a meal sent up, but would you be so kind as to stand guard so Theon and Jon can be relieved for the night?”

“Aye.”

Jon gave his sister a chaste kiss on the cheek, “I’ll be back with Ghost in a few minutes. I’ll find some servants and have them send up a meal for you, and one for Clegane.” Sansa thanked him and nodded before closing the door when the three men were in the hallway.

“Clegane.”

“Lord Stark?”

“Thank you,” Jon gripped Sandor’s shoulder firmly but did not meet his eyes.

Sandor stood in the hallway across from Sansa’s door. Several minutes later Jon appeared with Ghost, as promised. The wolf greeted Sandor before being ushered into Sansa’s room. Another few minutes passed before two servants arrived with a tray full of food and wine. Sandor knocked before opening the door to allow them to bring the food inside. He stood in the doorway, uncertain if the little bird intended for him to dine with her or not. She answered his unspoken question, “Would you care to join me, Sandor?”

“Aye, my thanks.”

As they sat down to eat Sansa raised her goblet with a slight smile on her face, “Here’s to this meal ending better than our last!”

Sandor chuckled, “Few people can find humor in almost being killed.”

“I’d have lost my mind by now if I wasn’t one of them.”

He snorted a laugh. Sansa continued to surprise and impress him, but as his fondness for her grew with every passing day, so did the sense of dread over the possibility of losing her.

“You were better company this morning, Sandor.”

He forced a half smile, “I’m sorry, little bird. I just can’t stop thinking about what would happen if…”

She took his hand, “You really needn’t worry about me. Don’t you remember? I’m tough to kill, though I may not look it.”

“Hmpf. Funny, I always say _I’m_ tough to kill. Though I most certainly look it.”

She giggled gleefully and this time he smiled for true. “Just imagine, our children might be immortal.” Her own words shocked her, “Oh, I just meant…”

“I know, little bird,” he held his smile but the idea of this perfect creature never passing on her traits made him sad for the world, and for himself. He changed the subject. “You placed quite an order for fabric today, planning on making new drapes for all of the North?”

“Hah, that’s not far from the truth. I need a new dress or two, and yes, we do need new curtains as a matter of fact, though I’ll not sew them myself. There are a few widows and orphans I’ve taken on whose only skill is sewing and embroidery. I also suspect there will be more than a few ladies _expecting_ after all the amorous activity I saw the night of our last feast. I suppose imminent death makes everyone a bit _loose_.”

“Wasn’t imminent death, it was that damn song of yours. Got everyone’s blood up – the men _and_ the women.”

“Well then remind me not to play it again until after our spring crops have started to yield! We have enough mouths to feed as it is.”

“Oh you’re playing it again, but I want a _private_ performance.”

“Mmm… now there’s the man I saw this morning… thought he was hiding from me.”

Sandor stared at her. In all his rage and worry he’d forgotten their conversation this morning just before arriving in Winter Town. Even if he’d remembered, he’d never have expected the little bird to still be in the mood for any such activity, yet here she was staring at him across the table with lust-filled eyes and biting her lower lip – a sight that sent a jolt straight to his cock.

“But you didn’t listen to me, little bird. I told you not to bathe, but you look cleaner than a day-old baby.”

“I was covered in another man’s blood and my own sweat.”

“Your point?”

“Well then I suppose we’ll have to wait until the morrow when the scent of my flowery bath oils has faded.” She rose, and he wasted no time grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her into his lap.

“I’ll make do,” he spoke against her lips just before parting them violently with his tongue. He held her arms at her sides, not allowing her any point of leverage as his lips moved to her jaw, then her neck, then her collar bone and chest. She was already panting and pressing herself into his lap. He growled in response. In three short strides he was tossing her on the bed. He made short work of the laces on the front of her dress, revealing a white bodice underneath.

In his lust he barely remembered how he got her sleeves off, or if she helped. Within seconds she lay before him in only her bodice, smallclothes, and stockings. He kissed the tops of her breasts which, in her supine position, were spilling out. He tore at the laces and soon the two milky-white mounds were on display before him. Even the scar from the Night King’s sword couldn’t ruin such perfect creations. Like an animal he licked and bit at her breasts and nipples, not caring that his growls of want made him sound just like his namesake. For her part she was moaning and writhing like a wanton thing.

_The Queen in the North, moaning over a dirty dog!_

He returned to her lips, wanting to feel as well as hear the sounds she was making. In this position his still fully clothed cock was pressed between her legs, and he felt her lift her hips up in an effort to get friction. “Not until you beg for it, girl,” he whispered in her ear.

“Please!”

“No, no, I told you I have other plans.”

In a fluid motion he ripped off her smallclothes, taking a minute to admire the now naked form before him. He didn’t have to pretend to ignore her scars; in truth he barely noticed them. As she propped herself on her elbows her breasts were perfect teardrops. Her tiny waist gave way to hips that were made for bearing children – a thought he pushed out of his mind. A thatch of copper hair hid her woman’s place. Her long white thighs were soft but not flabby like some he’d seen.

She had her knees clamped together in modesty. As he stroked the outside of her left thigh with one hand, he slid the other between her knees, “Open.”

She hesitated a moment before spreading her legs only a couple inches apart.

“More.”

She shook her head in a feeble effort at defiance.

“ _More_ ,” he growled.

She let her legs fall apart and his hungry eyes looked to her glistening woman’s place.

“Fucking perfect,” he muttered, as he began his assault on her thighs. He kissed up and down them, smooth skin and marred skin alike, he left no inch un-kissed.

Satisfied with his efforts, he grasped her calves just below the knees and pulled her roughly to the edge of the bed. Kneeling on the floor before her he continued kissing her where the peach skin of her thighs met the coarser hair of her center. Using forefinger and thumb he gently parted her lips and began licking her swollen pearl. He circled his tongue at her entrance before dipping it in slightly, making her jerk against him. Like a dog he made one long lick from her tiny puckered hole up over her entrance and to her nub, where he continued his efforts in earnest, sucking it between his lips while the tip of his tongue laved it within his mouth. Her hips lifted off the mattress to press herself closer, but he pushed her down and held her firm with one forearm draped over her lower belly. She whimpered in protest, but he would not yield any of his control.

Her fingers threaded into his hair and gripped him tightly as her other hand dug into the sheets next to his head. Whenever her panting accelerated and her muscles tensed, he pulled back slightly, unwilling to let her peak just yet. Each time she let out an exasperated sigh to make known her disappointment, but he was undeterred; he wanted this to last.

When he finally had tortured her enough, he laced the fingers of his free hand into hers. He sucked her nub with such force that she cried out in pleasure. After this night, no one in the family keep would have any doubts as to the nature of their relationship. She squeezed his fingers so tightly it was almost painful. The soft thighs on either side of his head were shaking, and just when he was certain she would peak he released her hips, freeing her to move against his mouth – and move she did. With one hand still in his hair she pushed his head down as she lifted her hips up and screamed her release. He continued sucking but once she dropped her hips to the bed, he reduced the force to bring her down slowly. He lapped at her idly until she pushed his head away. He sat back on his ankles and took in the magnificent sight before him. Her skin was covered in a sheen of sweat. She had one bent arm covering her eyes, but her mouth was open, breathing hard. He watched her breasts jiggle slightly with each rise and fall of her chest.

Only then did he realize he still had on all his clothes. Hearing him stand she finally uncovered her eyes and looked at him. He met her eyes and held them as he removed his swordbelt, armored leather jerkin and tunic. He unlaced and kicked off his boots one at a time, still not lowering his eyes though she had done just that. His skin tingled where her eyes drank him in – first his chest, then his abdomen, then his cock once his breeches were off, before meeting his eyes again with a look of challenge in her eyes.

His cock was screaming for contact with her – with anything, really, but he wanted to give her more pleasure before taking his own. She looked confused a moment when he lowered himself to the floor again. He buried his tongue into her hole, and she cried out instantly. Fucking her with his tongue he could feel her inner muscles clamping around him and it was almost enough to make him spill himself. She peaked within seconds, this time letting out a throaty, satisfied moan.

Needing less time to recover she was soon pleading for more. “Sandor, please” she spoke into the mattress, with her head turned sideways.

“Please what?”

“Pleeease!”

“Please what, little bird? Tell me what you want. More of my tongue?”

“No… _pleeease!_ ”

He was standing now, his thighs of a height with the top of her tall mattress.

“Then what?”

“Fucking hells! Your cock, _please_.”

Without delay he flipped her onto her belly, his knees on the mattress straddling her thighs. With arms on either side of her shoulders he lowered himself to her ear, “And what do you want me to do with my cock, girl, hmm?”

“Gods, fuck me, Sandor, _please._ ”

With one violent motion he lifted her hips and sheathed himself in her. He knew he was being rough – maybe _too_ rough, but she was so wet and willing he met little resistance. Even so she was tight around his girth. She whimpered and cried but he did not stop, nor did he think she wanted him to. Straightening his back he let his hands roam over her, stroking, squeezing, and kneading, then repeating the process. In this position she was tight, but he could bury himself in her fully. She cried his name into the furs beneath her. He stared down at the long line of her back, the hourglass of her figure so pronounced. A thousand scars couldn’t ruin her.

He could have finished the moment he was sheathed in her. He was using all his will to hold off. In their few encounters he had already come to love the feeling of her walls clenching around him when she peaked. He quickened his pace and was rewarded with the rapid pants he came to know meant she was close. She backed herself into him and gyrated her hips.

_Fucking gorgeous._

When she peaked it was like her first, a scream she could not contain. As she pulsed around him, he slowed his pace to draw out a few more seconds for himself. Leaning over her he nuzzled into her hair and wrapped one arm under and across her chest to pull her back as tight to his chest as possible. She was still coming down when he grunted into her ear the question he needed answered – the question whose answer would either make him whole or shatter him to pieces.

“Say you’re mine, little bird. You already know I’m yours, tell me you’re mine.”

She did not hesitate, “I’m yours, Sandor. I’m yours…”

“All mine.”

“All yours.”

He did shatter, but not the way he feared. His heart burst inside his chest as his seed burst into her channel. The surge of physical and emotional euphoria was too much, and he sobbed his pleasure into her hair, not caring if he sounded like a bloody fool. His release kept coming in waves – something he’d never experienced before. He felt the heat spurt out of him over and over again, each time with a little tickle of pleasure. His limbs went numb, but he had at least enough awareness to collapse to his side instead of on top of her. As close as he held her his cock was still inside her as they laid on the bed.

“Sansa,” he whispered into her hair. His lips never felt worthy of her name the few times he’d said it, but tonight he felt worthy. He’d killed for her – again; and he’d keep killing for her until his arms fell off or he died of old age.

He wanted to keep saying it, to keep hearing it.

“Sansa.” _I’m yours._

“Sansa.” _You’re mine._

“Sansa.” _I need you._

“Sansa.” _I love you._

But he still could not say _those_ words. He was certain saying them out loud would be all it took for the Gods to finally reveal the past several months were nothing but the setup for an elaborate jape – and it would be the final nail in the coffin for Sandor Clegane.

She turned her head and he noticed tears in her eyes. With a hand he turned her further and kissed her deeply before pressing his forehead against hers, breathing her air as she breathed his.

“I love you, too,” her words ghosted against his lips, and he smiled.

He held her against him, letting her cry, but her tears must have troubled the direwolf he forgot was in the room, for the beast came to the side of her bed and nearly gave Sandor a heart attack.

“Fucking creeper, were you watching the whole time?”

The wolf just stared and sniffed the air, ears twitching when Sansa chuckled.

Turning his attention back to the wolf in his arms he asked, “Are you crying because you’re happy then, little bird?”

“Yes… and no.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to have to hide this. _Us_. I want everyone to know I’m yours, and you’re mine.”

“You know I don’t need…”

“I know, I’m not talking about marriage, Sandor. I respect you too much to condemn you to that fate. I want to live in sin with you. I want to flaunt our love. I want to hold your hand when we walk. I want to kiss you goodbye when you ride off on a mission. I want to ride pillion with you. I want to bathe with you in the Godswood under the rays of the sun.”

He smiled and kissed her again. _Could she possibly know how happy her words make me?_

“So do it, you’re the bloody queen.”

“That’s exactly why I _can’t_ do it… all the _power_ I have, but not the power to live as common folk live all the time. My lords will lose respect for me. They won’t follow me, they’ll…”

“Then fuck ‘em. You’ve given _everything_ for them. You gave your _life_ for them. If they won’t permit you to live it the way you want to, then FUCK THEM. Tell them where they can shove their swords instead of laying them at your feet.”

She chuckled but was not yet pacified. “It’s not just me, Sandor. They respect you now. In such a short time you gained their admiration by fighting for them… with them. But if they see us together, they’ll think it was all done to win my affection. They’ll think you’re taking advantage of their _broken little queen_.”

“Let them think what they want. We know the truth. Those closest to us know the truth, too. Any man who wants to complain will meet my fist. Any woman who wants to complain will meet Brienne’s. Hells, not even: you can turn their blood to ice with that glare of yours, the one you gave the poor kitchen girl.”

Sansa gasped, “I did no such thing.”

Sandor chuckled, rolling to his back and pulling the little bird against his side, “Oh yes you did! I thought feathers were going to fly any minute.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Believe what you want, but mind you, I’m not complaining. Never had a woman get jealous over me.”

“Well don’t get used to it. I won’t disgrace myself that way ever again!”

“Oh yes you will. You’re a she-wolf if I ever saw one. And a she-wolf is as territorial as they come. Will kill to keep and protect what’s hers. Will die for it, as you’ve already proven.”

She blushed but seemed to enjoy the compliment, “You and Tormund really can’t make up your minds. I’m a she-wolf, a lone-wolf, a red wolf, a lady crow, a red bird, a little bird… I can’t keep up.”

“That’s because you’re all of them. A pretty bird with your sweet songs, and a she-wolf with your fearsome snarl.” He bared his teeth in demonstration, and she laughed for true.

“Well if my snarl is fearsome, I most certainly learned it from you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Hah!”

They fell into a comfortable silence, he tracing his fingers up and down her back, she weaving her fingers into the black hair on his chest. Occasionally she trailed down to this navel and each time he jerked, “You know I don’t like being tickled.”

“It’s not a tickle, it’s a belly rub for my _fearsome hound_.”

“Haven’t you had enough of him for one day?”

“Never,” she kissed his chest at his heart before laying her cheek there.

For several minutes he dozed in and out of sleep, lulled by the sound of her humming.

“What’s that song, girl? It’s a pretty melody.”

“Shh…” she continued humming, sometimes mouthing words. Wrapping a blanket around her she stood and walked to her small table, Ghost at her side. Sandor sat up to watch her. She continued humming while she wrote on a parchment, occasionally pausing in thought.

“New song?”

She ignored him.

He stood, pulled on his smallclothes, then walked to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder. She snatched the parchment to her chest, “Not yet.”

He smiled as he bent and planted a kiss on her bare shoulder, “As you say. I’m going to dress and stand guard in the hallway, though I doubt there’s anyone in this keep who doesn’t know what happened tonight.”

She blushed but waved him away, “Alright.”

“Hmpf, I’ve done my _duty_ and now you’re dismissing me?” he asked playfully.

She tsked him, “You can stay as long as you wish, as long as you do so _quietly,_ ” she returned to her writing and humming.

He motioned two fingers locking his lips, but she did not see, so absorbed in her latest musical creation. He might have been offended if it weren’t so bloody adorable to see her think and hum and write and think some more. After dressing he made his exit with an exaggerated mummer’s style bow, which she also did not see. He chuckled as he assumed his post in the hallway.

He estimated two hours had passed before Theon emerged from his room fully dressed and armed, “I’ve come to relieve you.”

“My thanks, what time is it?”

“Midnight.”

“You mustn’t have had much sleep then.”

Theon stared at him a moment with pursed lips before responding, “I would have, if there hadn’t been so much noise.”

Sandor tried to look ashamed but only smiled. Theon shook his head, “Go on then, by the sound of things you need the rest more than I do.”

In truth he _was_ exhausted but was reticent to leave the little bird. If not for the direwolf in her bedroom, he’d likely have stood vigil with Theon all night.

“Right, my thanks. Rouse me if you feel you might doze.”

Sandor strode the short distance to his own bedchamber and removed only his swordbelt and jerkin before collapsing on the bed, asleep.


	73. Love on the Brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor isn't the only one with love on his mind.

**Jaime**

The days after Sansa’s thwarted assassination saw the entire castle on high alert. Brienne, Jon, and Clegane looked particularly wary – eyes darting around constantly. Sansa herself seemed fairly at ease, but perhaps it was only because she had the distraction of preparing for the feast. Everywhere she went she was shadowed by two of either Clegane, Beric, or Theon, with her brother occasionally stepping in. Tormund also seemed to be in her company more than usual, but whether he was worried for her safety or afraid to miss any more action, Jaime could not say.

One afternoon after he was finished with the day’s training, Jaime decided to take the short ride to Winter Town. He knew the attack happened there and wanted to see if there were any suspicious men lurking around. He knew more than likely they’d be hiding in the woods, out of sight, but there was always the possibility they’d be more brazen. 

He ordered a new pair of boots from the father-son shop that served as both tanner and cobbler.

Next he stopped at the seamstress – an outspoken and flirtatious woman who seemed taken by his golden hair, which he knew to be fairly uncommon in the North. He ordered two new tunics and a pair of woolen breeches, though immediately regretted the latter as the woman seemed a bit too excited to take measurements of the lower half of his body. With a wink she jotted down his order and promised to throw in a pair of smallclothes and woolen socks at no charge ‘for friends of the queen’.

He milled about for a while, enjoying a hot honeyed roll from the baker before making his way to the Drunken Dog – the alehouse where the attack took place.

Entering the building nearly every set of eyes turned to meet him. He suddenly worried that with his southern looks he’d be mistaken for another assassin. He removed the black glove that hid his golden hand, for once _wanting_ to be recognized as the Kingslayer. It seemed to work as the men went back to their drinking and banter. Taking one of the unoccupied spaces he stood at the bar, which was being manned by a plain young woman and an older man.

“You Roger?” he asked the barkeep after taking a sip of his ale.

“Last I checked. You the Kingslayer?”

“Sad but true.”

“Mmm… now it makes sense.”

“What does?”

“Nothing.”

Jaime was puzzled but continued on, “I stopped by to express my thanks for your helping to protect our Queen.”

“Then I suppose I owe you the same. You’re the one saved our Queen from the Boltons.”

“She saved herself from the Boltons, I merely acted as an escort.”

“Never expected _you_ to be humble. You’re just like the big fellow.”

“Clegane?”

“Mm hmm. Tough bugger, that one. Lady Stark is lucky to have him.”

“Indeed.”

“I’d not want to be the man to threaten the Queen when he’s around.”

Jaime got the feeling the man was making a point but knew not what it might be. “As he has proven, time and again.”

“Mmm…”

Roger refilled some cups and continued wiping down the bar, something he seemed to do compulsively. Jaime observed him out of the corner of his eye as he sipped his ale, “I suppose you don’t need to be told to be on the lookout for any strange faces, or dark ones.”

“Almost every face is strange until these lords and ladies leave with their armies, but aye, it’s easy enough to tell Northmen from Southron when you’ve lived as long as I have here.”

“Indeed.”

An awkward pause stretched out before Roger continued, “Your brother is the little fellow with the big mouth?”

Jaime almost spit out his ale, “Truer words have never been spoken, Roger.”

“Normally don’t like big mouths, but he pays well, and seems to treat the girls at the Inn well enough. You and your brother share those traits?”

“Only the big mouth and the paying well.”

“Got your own woman, then?”

“No.”

Roger looked taken aback.

“Boy, then?”

“Gods, no! Can’t a man remain blissfully unattached?”

“He can, but people will question. Especially with a face like that,” Roger circled his finger in the air in front of Jaime’s face. “Around here you either got a woman or are looking; winter nights are cold and lonely without one. If you fancy a lad best keep it to yourself, though. I know in the South men can get away with that but up here you’ll lose more than your hand for it.”

“Good to know, though rest assured I’m only interested in the fairer sex.”

“So, who’s the lucky lady then?”

“I told you already, there isn’t one.”

“And I told you already, you’re full of shite.”

Something about the man made Jaime want to confess that he did, indeed, fancy someone. There was truthfully no one he could tell among his friends at Winterfell – no one who wouldn’t mock him endlessly, at least. “Fine, if your life is that boring that you must live through the conquests of other men, there is a lady I fancy, though I don’t believe she returns the sentiment.”

“She blind?”

“You’re awfully complimentary of my appearance for someone who lives in a land where men are gelded for such behavior.”

“Hmpf, I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“So it would appear.”

“So, why doesn’t this lady return your affection?”

“She isn’t the type.”

“Ahh, so she favors the fairer sex, too?”

_Does she?_ When he first met Brienne, he assumed that was the case, but Jaime was certain that Lady Sansa’s beauty was enough to reveal anyone’s true nature – man or woman. Brienne seemed at ease around Sansa but never did her eyes linger. On the contrary, she blushed whenever the topic of _men_ was brought up.

“No, I believe she would prefer men to women, I just mean she isn’t interested in romance. She isn’t delicate and frilly like most women.”

“Neither is Lady Sansa, nor most Northern women, in case you hadn’t noticed. Hells, I’ve seen women of the _Free Folk_ throw a man up against the wall and have their way with him.”

“This lady would never be that forward.”

“Then why don’t you ask her how she feels? You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed over. You might find out she returns your feelings but is too shy to show it.”

“Because I see her every day, it would be quite humiliating to have to see her after having her reject me in that way.”

Roger lifted an eyebrow and lowered his voice, “The lady in question is not our queen, is it?”

“No!”

“Good, because I think the big man would cut you down for that, too.”

Jaime smirked. Apparently, this wise old barkeep saw the same look in Clegane’s eyes that Jaime saw so many times himself. From the screams that came from Lady Sansa’s room two nights ago, he had no doubt that Clegane finally got his heart’s desire.

“This particular lady might cut me down herself if I’m wrong.” _Oops – too much information._

“So, does she have a friend you can speak to?”

“Hmm, I never thought of that.”

He wasn’t sure Sansa and Brienne were _friends_ exactly, but Sansa was uncannily observant, and might have noticed things that Jaime missed. Or perhaps Brienne had confided something. They did spend considerable time alone together on both trips to and from Castle Black – even sharing tents.

_Isn’t that what women do? Whisper about the men who’ve caught their eye while they braid each other’s hair._ The image he conjured made him laugh aloud.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, though you’ve been most helpful, Roger. I shall take your advice and do some investigating.”

Roger shrugged as if suddenly uninterested in the topic altogether.

Jaime rode back to Winterfell with a new mission in mind and knew exactly when to carry it out.

**\------------------------------------------------------**

**Sandor**

Theon and Jon had relieved Beric and Sandor and for a change Sandor was grateful for it. It was late afternoon and Sandor had foregone both breakfast and lunch. The little bird could flutter about the castle all day with her various tasks and not even think about eating until supper. Sandor could skip one meal a day but not two. He was almost weak by the time he and Beric scavenged leftover food from the Cook and ate in the otherwise unoccupied dining hall. It was the first time the two men had been alone together since the battle, and Beric kept eying him over his cold venison sandwich.

“Out with it, Knight.”

Beric chuckled, “I’m just thinking about how funny the Lord works.”

“Aye, he’s a fucking hoot.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. The bugger’s got a sense of humor, just a bloody sick one.”

“I won’t deny that, but he also gives us the chance to make better of our lot.”

“If you say so.”

“Well, look at your own life.”

“Nothing funny about it.”

“Perhaps not, but a year ago did you think you’d be where you are now?”

“Listening to you yammer while eating cold meat on day-old bread? Aye, it’s exactly where I thought I’d be, as a matter of fact.”

Beric laughed again, “I think it’s your sense of humor she likes best.”

“Who’s that?”

“Our lovely queen.”

“Aye, that’s why she has me as her shield instead of the court’s fool.”

“Are you really going to deny it? Everyone in the family quarters heard her screaming your name.”

Sandor snapped his head up, “Would you shut your bloody mouth?!”

Beric gestured at the empty hall, “Who is going to hear, the mice in the walls? The spiders in the corners?”

“Just shut your mouth! Gods you’re as bad at the fucking ginger.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“You and Lady Sansa.”

“What of it?”

“I’d expect you to be happier. If the love of a woman like that doesn’t thaw your heart than I’m afraid you may be a lost cause.”

“My heart is none of your concern.”

“So she does love you then?”

“Fuck off.”

“Hah! That’s an affirmation coming from your mouth, you do know that, right?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Is there a point to this?”

“Just wondering if I will soon be calling you Lord Sansa Stark.”

“Hah fucking hah.”

“Seriously Clegane, are you going to do right by her? I know you hate vows but…”

“She doesn’t need to sully her name by sharing it with the likes of me.”

“Still think you’re worthless, old boy?”

“Not worthless, just not worthy of her.”

“And who is?”

“Exactly.”

“So then no one is any more or less worthy. Worthy is worthy.”

“Hmm, might be to a disgraced Knight and a Lannister turncloak, but I bet the Lords and Ladies of the North would disagree.”

“You seem to be forgetting these Lords and Ladies chose to fight for a _woman._ A girl, really. They accepted the Kingslayer, they accepted Theon _Turncloak_ , they accepted the Lannister Hound and the Lannister Dwarf. This isn’t the South, Clegane. A man’s worth is measured by his character here.”

“You do know they followed the Stark name for over eight thousand years, don’t you?”

“Do you think it was only the _name_ they followed? Listen to their stories about Ned Stark, about his father Rickard. Read the books that have been written for thousands of years extolling the Stark strength, their heroics, their honor. A dynasty doesn’t last that long by name alone.”

“Aye, well it doesn’t hurt. And my name is worth less than shite.”

Beric sighed, “Why don’t you let your queen decide that?”

“I have.”

Beric looked shocked, “And she decided you’re not worthy of her name?”

“No, decided her people won’t approve. And she’s right. I don’t give a fuck anyway; I don’t want her name. I’m happy the way things are, that is until some fucker like you comes and tries to convince me they could be better.”

Beric looked genuinely apologetic, “Well, then for that I am sorry, though I dare say she may be misjudging her people.”

Sandor shrugged, “Makes no matter.”

The Knight would say no more on the subject, “Well, I for one need a nap. Would you like me to take the first shift tonight?”

“No, I never fall asleep until late. Relieve me after midnight if it please you.”

“I’ll do that.”

Sandor sat alone in the large empty hall, and it felt somehow fitting. He cursed his own softness but couldn’t help but feel that for every bit of herself the little bird gave him, the more he wanted. When he first arrived at Winterfell, he felt that he could spend the rest of his life just being happy to catch a glimpse of her hair for a few minutes each day. As they began to keep each other’s company at night, strolling through the Godswood and gardens, he thought those private conversations and occasional smiles would be enough. When she named him her shield, he thought getting to watch over her all day and feel her hand on his arm was enough. When she let him into her bed it felt like more than he ever deserved, like she was giving him the greatest gift in the world. And now that he had her love – well, he was ashamed to admit he did want what Beric spoke of. He did want to be able to kiss her and hold her hand as she had said. He wanted to sit next to her at the High Table, not for the attention it would bring him, but just to be able to rest his hand on her thigh under the table.

_And if she gives you that? What will you want then?_

That thought made him sad. If he had her public affection, would it still not be enough? Would he want her name, too? Would he want to be her King, or at least her consort? And if she made him either of those things, would he want the one thing she could not give him?

_Children…_

A daughter that would look like the little bird. They’d name her Lily if she had Sansa’s porcelain skin, or Rose if she had her red hair. A boy would get a powerful name. With her Stark blood and his Clegane he had no doubt their sons would be big and strong. Perhaps Edrick as a nod to both her father Eddard and brother Rickon. Or Robbert, a nod to the brother she lost and the King who wanted to see her as his good-daughter and someday Queen of the Seven Kingdoms… the King who was a strong fighter even if not a strong ruler.

_No use thinking about this, dog._

But he thought back to Sansa’s words when she informed him and Jon of her condition. She didn’t say she _couldn’t_ have children, only that it was unlikely any seed would take, and even less likely she’d carry the babe to term.

_But what if this condition is not permanent? What if it’s because of all the physical and mental stress she has suffered?_ Sandor didn’t know much about women’s reproductive abilities, but in his time as Cersei’s shield he had often heard old Ladies offering advice to the newly married Ladies of court: _“You must be patient, and not worry so much! When you stop worrying, the babe will come.”_

He desperately wished there was a wise woman or midwife he could ask. Surely, they would know. But he settled for the next best thing. With the time he should be sleeping, he instead went to the Maester’s Turret. He found the fat young maester from the Night’s Watch – Samwell Tarly. He asked for a few minutes of his time, so the man led him to a smaller room away from the older Maester Damon.

“What is ailing you, Lord Clegane?”

“Nothing, and I’m not a Lord.”

“Right. My mistake. What can I do for you, then?”

“I have a question of a personal nature… about a certain person…”

“I cannot disclose information about any of the patients I’ve treated, it is against the Maester’s Vows.”

“I don’t need you to disclose any information. I already know from this person’s own mouth…”

Sandor thought carefully about how to phrase his question, “It is a woman, you see. She says she is unable or at least unlikely to bear children because of a condition. She gets painful and irregular moonbloods, I think that is the cause.”

“Mmm… hostile womb.”

“What?”

“Hostile womb, that’s what we call it. A womb that doesn’t easily seed, and when it does it is prone to expulsion – that is, miscarriage. Also associated with heavy and painful moonbloods."

“Right. So, what causes it?”

“No one knows for certain. Most women get it in their thirties or forties, which leads some maesters to believe it is the body’s response to pregnancy. To put it simply, the womb throws its arms up and says, ‘no more, please!’” Samwell’s face turned crimson when Sandor was unamused by his attempt at humor.

Samwell cleared his throat, “At least, that’s one of the theories… it can also develop after a particularly difficult childbirth.”

Sandor didn’t know if her childbirth had been difficult, though it certainly could have been, under the circumstances.

“Aye, what about stress, or other factors that the woman can control?”

“Well stress is most certainly to be avoided for a woman trying to conceive.”

“What else should she avoid?”

“It has more to do with what she _shouldn’t_ avoid. It’s best if she eats a balanced diet, plenty of fresh meat and vegetables, limit the intake of alcohol and sugar. Get plenty of sleep.”

“Aye, so if a woman does all of those things will the condition go away?”

Samwell frowned, “Unfortunately that is difficult to predict. For a young woman I’d say yes, there is a good chance of that happening. For a woman in her thirties or older the condition usually continues until her cycles stop altogether.”

“My thanks.”

Sandor hurriedly exited, not wanting to give the maester any chance to ask questions of his own. He headed for his chambers, knowing that once the feast was over and the guests had all departed, he would set himself on a new task. He’d make sure Sansa ate three healthy meals each day, or at least two to start. Getting her to sleep more would be tricky, though he felt smugly confident that an evening of vigorous bedroom activity would wear her out, and she always seemed to rest easier in his arms – except when thinking up new songs, apparently.

_I sound like a bloody nursemaid!_ _The Hound would be laughing at me, wanting to take care of a woman, feed her bloody fruits and vegetables and meat, then hold her until she falls asleep._

He truly couldn’t bring himself to be bothered, though, until another thought provoked him. _She won’t want your bastards, dog!_

Sandor was torn – from the sadness in Sansa’s voice when she confessed her condition to him and Jon, he assumed she wanted to have children. Yet she seemed dead set against marrying anyone, including Sandor. Would she want children even if they’d be bastards? Would she worry that the Northmen wouldn’t accept her baseborn children as heirs to Winterfell?

He only found peace by telling himself that was her concern. He would take care of her, make her well, and give her pups if she wanted them. And if she didn’t want them, he’d simply have to do without them… without Lily and Rose and Edrick and Robbert…

_No matter. The little bird is all I need._

If it was a lie, it was a small one.


	74. A Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes a statement... actually a few statements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves for a long chapter.

**Sansa**

The feast would be a spectacular success, thanks in no small part to Lord Tywin’s generous gifts and Sandor’s recent hunts. It was odd to feel grateful to Tywin Lannister, but if Sansa had learned anything over the past few years it was that first impressions were often wrong. The first time she saw Tyrion Lannister she thought him nothing but a drunken imbecile…

_Well, I was half right._

Jaime Lannister was the Kingslayer who stabbed his own King in the back to advance his family’s position. _In reality, he did it to save a million people, and probably more._

Joffrey’s Hound was a mean, crude, short-tempered… _Well, he’s still all those things, but he’s also sweet, and funny, and loyal, and…_

_…and I’m utterly in love with him._

“And tonight, I’m going to let everyone know it!” She spoke to her reflection in the mirror she only recently turned around. She no longer hated the sight of her scars, but whether it was her time in the dark place or Sandor’s acceptance of her, she did not know.

Sansa was nervous for multiple reasons. For one, she would be expected to make a speech; for another, she intended to make a public declaration. What would come next she did not know, but she awoke this morning with a lightness that comes only when one is entirely sure that they are on the right path. She glided about the grounds seeing to the last-minute preparations.

Several times her old friend _doubt_ paid her a visit, but each time she politely turned him down. No, this would not be like the past choices she had come to regret – the choice to stay in King’s Landing, to betray her father to Cersei, to lay back and let Littlefinger use her, to leave Littlefinger for Ramsay…

All those choices were made through a misguided sense of what was expected of her, or, later, self-preservation. Her actions tonight would be based on a choice to do something very unexpected and even scary. Unbeckoned, thoughts of Daenerys came to her mind. Of the woman’s madness Sansa was certain, but that didn’t mean all her ideas were wrong.

_Breaking the wheel… I agree with her about that. The wheel that says a lady must be proper and polite even to those who never return her courtesy… that says she must marry for no reason other than political motives… that she must do her lord husband’s bidding, spread her legs for him whenever he wants, give him as many babes as he wants, never take a lover even while her husband has his whores..._

_The wheel that says a Queen without a King by her side is just begging to be usurped._

_The wheel that defines honor as those with a ‘Ser’ or ‘Lord’ in front of their name._

_The wheel that says bastards are worth less than their trueborn siblings._

The wheel Daenerys spoke of was the one of literal slavery, but what is a slave if not a woman forced into a hurtful, loveless marriage? What is a slave if not a man sent to the front of the Vanguard because he is lowborn? Or a bastard who swears to the Night’s Watch because his own stepmother treats him like vermin?

Sansa grinned at her own reflection.

_I think my speech has written itself._

\-------------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor and Theon arrived outside the little bird’s room at seven o’clock as she’d asked. Sandor was surprised to be looking forward to the feast for more than just the food and ale. He had come to enjoy the company of these north folk. They drank and japed, told tales that weren’t entirely horseshit, sang, danced, played games. He was loath to admit it, but he’d enjoyed the drinking game the Imp had devised, and hoped to play again, this time with Beric, Thoros, and Jon. He also hoped the little bird would treat everyone to a few of her songs. Starting tomorrow he planned to – without her knowledge –get her to eat and sleep well and stop worrying so damned much. But tonight he would get her very drunk, drunk enough to sing and maybe even play her strings. He had to fight back a mischievous grin but was assisted when Sansa opened her door.

She wore a metallic gray dress that was tight through the sleeves and torso but loose and flowing below the hips. At about waist level the gray fabric was opened to reveal a shimmery black underskirt. The border separating the gray from black was a canary yellow. Draped over her arm was a black cloak.

_She’s wearing the colors of House Clegane… and House Stark._

He entertained the possibility that it was a coincidence – that in her resourcefulness she used up leftover yellow fabric from some summer dress she’d had laying around Winterfell, but there was nothing _accidental_ about the oval cut-out that exposed the tops of her breasts and a good portion of the dark red line where the Night King’s blade pierced her chest.

He and Theon must have been staring at her, mouths agape, for nearly a minute before she finally spoke, “Are we going to stand here all night or proceed to the festivities?”

Both men only nodded. Sansa rolled her eyes as she draped the cloak over her shoulders. Sandor noticed the slightest smirk on her face before he fell in behind her and Theon – the latter finally having offered his arm while Sandor continued to stare in awe.

Exiting the Great Keep into the courtyard, Sandor noticed just how crowded it was, and felt more than a little worried that an assassin could easily be hidden among the horde. “Keep your eyes open, boy,” He muttered to Theon, knowing the little bird heard, too.

Rather than heading for the large dining hall they ascended the stairs that led to the walkway overlooking the courtyard. Theon and Sandor stood behind and to her right as she looked out over the crowd. Sandor allowed himself to look upon her again and noted that she looked every bit a Queen. Her back straight and proud, her neck long and graceful. Her red hair reflected every bit of moon and torch light in the many braids that converged into a bun at the back of her head.

The crowd applauded but quickly quieted without being prompted. All eyes were on her, and all ears were waiting to hear what she had to say.

“My lords and ladies, my friends old and new, it gladdens me to look upon your faces this evening. Just over a fortnight ago we stood in this courtyard, upon these walls and these walkways. We stood not knowing if we’d see our loved ones again. We stood not knowing whether we would see the dawn. We stood not knowing how to fight an enemy the likes of which the world had never seen and – Gods willing – will never see again…”

“But we **_stood_**.”

Several in the crowd below whistled and shouted.

“And we _fought_.”

Another, louder round of cheers broke out.

“And we _lived.”_

This time the applause lasted so long Sansa had to pause her speech.

“Tonight we are here to celebrate, but it is not victory we celebrate, it is **_life_. **Not just _our_ lives, but the lives of those who died fighting beside us. Do not mourn their deaths… celebrate their lives. Earn their sacrifice by living. Celebrate them as the heroes they are, but also celebrate the man or woman next to you; he or she is a hero—”

“ _You’re_ the hero!” a distant and slightly drunk voice shouted back, and many raised their hands and cups in agreement.

Sansa shook her head, “I am not a hero. The men of the Night’s Watch are heroes, for bringing attention to the threat in the first place; for undertaking a dangerous mission to capture a wight so they’d have the proof needed to rally our Houses. The maesters and healers who tended the wounded are heroes; they worked tirelessly night and day without rest. Lyanna Mormont is a hero – she single-handedly killed a Giant with no concern for her own life. The Free Folk who had to give up their homes, their way of life, and put their trust in _us_ – they are heroes. The Houses who answered Winterfell’s call are heroes. The blacksmiths who lost blood and sweat to make the weapons we needed are heroes. The mothers who held their babies while their husbands fought and died are heroes. Need I go on? Do you doubt me?” she spoke the words as a challenge.

“NO!” the crowd responded in unison, and the hairs on Sandor’s neck rose.

“The North stood as **_one_** , and _that_ is why we survived. And that is why we will _always_ survive, no matter what we face. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives…”

At this, all the Free Folk in the crowd howled, and Sansa smiled.

“No matter the threat we face in the future – be it dragons and Dothraki horse warriors or Cersei Lannister’s army of sellswords, we will survive. As long as one Northman lives, the North lives. And for that reason I have no fear. Northmen were not born to fear. We were not born to kneel. We were not born to live our lives by _their_ rules,” Sansa pointed angrily toward the South. “This is the North – where a man is respected because of his strength, because of his honor, not because of his name, or the blood in his veins; where a woman is more than the claims she can give her husband; where a girl can dream of becoming a Knight; where a boy can become a leader even if he is born a bastard…”

She paused here, and the crowd took the opportunity to voice their approval once again.

Somewhat wistfully she continued, “I realized tonight that Daenerys Targaryen and I have something in common…”

A few men could be heard grumbling and spitting at the mention.

“…she and I both want to break the wheel, but unlike her, I do not wish to replace it with another wheel. I want to make allies, not enemies. I want to do my part to help the North prosper in the longest era of peace the world has ever seen. I want to see the North be not just the largest but the strongest of the Kingdoms. But make no mistake – we will not be made to kneel – not to any mad kings or queens.” Cheers erupted again.

“I make only one promise to you: The Queen or King that tries to force our fealty will go the way of the Night King, as long as there is breath in my body. And I promise you this _not_ because I am your Queen, _not_ because I am your Lady, but because I am your _Servant_. My only wish is to serve you – my people, my home, my North – I will fight for you, I will live for you, and I will die for you. Ask nothing more of me, for there is nothing more I can give.”

The crowd burst into applause but seemed to want more as they quieted again after a minute rather than proceeding to the night’s festivities.

“I will leave you with this, friends: while you’re celebrating tonight, remember to look to the men and women around you. Shake their hands, give them your thanks, because they’ll get no other thanks. The rest of the realm cares not about our sacrifice – knows not what they were saved from… but we know… and we’ll remember… _The North Remembers!_ ”

This time, the cheering did not stop. The howling and clapping and hooting did not stop, it only morphed from the sound of praise to the sound of celebration. Applause turned into fiddle music. Cheers turned into words, howls into songs.

As Sansa crossed the courtyard, many people reached out to shake or kiss her hand. Some reached out just to touch her as if she were some ethereal Goddess. Sandor felt panicked – if any one of them was an assassin he could stab her without anyone seeing it happen. He walked at her side with one arm behind her, ready to pull her back if anyone made a move. Theon noticed and did the same.

As they entered the dining hall everyone stood and applauded their queen. Whether they heard her speech or not Sandor was uncertain. The other Lords and Ladies, including Jon and Tormund, joined Sansa at the High Table. Before she sat, she removed her cloak and hung it over the back of her chair, and Theon and Sandor were stunned for the second time that night. The back of Sansa’s dress had a large cutout spanning almost the entire width of her back, rounded at the bottom, just a couple inches above the small of her back, and tapering into a point between her shoulder blades. Much of her scarred back was on display to any who stood behind her.

_What game are you playing little bird?_

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Jon**

Jon was powerless to stop his tears during his sister’s speech. His little sister, who once dreamed of being a helpless princess rescued by a handsome Knight – was the Queen in the North. And she was a damned good one. The gruff and tough Northmen and even tougher Free Folk adored her and respected her. Jon wondered if there was a man or woman in all of Winterfell that wouldn’t lay down his or her life in service to their Queen. And yet he knew her words were true: she did not view herself as their queen but as their servant. Her life was for them, not the other way around.

Pride, happiness, sadness – they all converged and threatened to swell Jon’s heart to bursting. He looked up at the ink-black sky.

_So dark… is that the dark place Sansa spoke of? Are you up there, Father? Can you see your daughter?_

No voice answered him, but Jon was certain that somewhere his family was watching over them, and he knew they’d be just as proud of Sansa as he was.

Inside the Hall he joined his sister at the High Table. He had to avoid Clegane’s eyes so as not to ruin his good mood. He knew the man only cared for Sansa – loved her, even – but she was still his sister, and his blood boiled every time he thought of Clegane taking liberties with her that only a husband should take.

_Then again, her last husband took liberties that no man should take…_

When Jon took his turn to approach his sister and give her a kiss on the cheek, he stopped dead in his tracks. Her dress exposed her entire back and a multitude of crisscrossed scars, not to mention the deep gash left by the Night King on her chest.

“Hello, Jon. I hope you approved of my speech, I know I represent both of us now, all two members of House Stark…”

He crouched at her side and through gritted teeth spoke so only she could hear, “The speech was fine, Sansa, but what in Gods’ name are you wearing?”

“A dress, Jon.”

“I realize that, though I dare say this barely qualifies.”

“Jon, you’ve spent too much time around only men; I can assure you this is perfectly acceptable by today’s standards. You should see what they wear in King’s Landing…”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying! Do you really wish to be on display like this?”

“Why not?”

“Does it not shame you?”

Sansa’s smile disappeared, and her eyes grew cold. “No Jon, if it shamed me, I’d not be wearing it. I’ve decided I’m rather tired of being _shamed_ by my own past, by my own body.”

Jon glanced at Clegane who was staring straight ahead, though must have heard their conversation. His scars were plainly visible from Jon’s angle. _Now I get it._

“I see.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “ _What_ do you see, Jon?”

“You’re doing this for him. What is this, some sort of way to make them understand the attraction? Is this what it is that attracts you to him in the first place, that he’s scarred like you?” His intent was not bitter, in fact he rather liked the idea that Clegane had somehow helped Sansa overcome her insecurity, but clearly the words did not come out as he intended.

Sansa rose so suddenly Jon almost fell over. Jon rose to meet her gaze, “Sansa, I only meant…”

“I know what you meant.”

Tormund, sensing the rising tempers, put a heavy hand on Jon’s back, “Come on Lord Crow, I heard someone was fool enough to challenge Val to an archery contest. Let’s go laugh and yell out that his pecker is small.”

Jon bowed his head, “Sister.”

As soon as they got outside Tormund turned on him, “What the fuck’s up your arse?”

“You didn’t see her _dress_?”

“Of course I saw. I think your sister’s balls are bigger than mine.”

“You think that’s what that was? No… she did it for _him.”_ Jon resumed walking.

“For who?”

“Who do you think?”

“The big man?”

“Aye, the _big man_ ,” Jon parroted Tormund’s accent.

“Pff, it’s not for him.”

“Then who’s it for?”

Tormund stopped him with a heavy arm across the chest, “It’s for _her…_ and for _them,”_ Tormund gestured around him at everyone.

“What do you mean? Sansa has always hidden herself, always been shy.”

“Aye, maybe she’s tired of hiding. Maybe she doesn’t want to do it anymore. Maybe she wants to remind them that she’s tough, that she’s endured, survived.”

“No,” Jon shook his head, “Sansa isn’t prideful like that. You heard her speech; she doesn’t want them to think of her as a hero.”

“I didn’t say a hero, I said a _survivor._ There was nothing heroic about enduring what that fucking Bolton prick did to her, but she survived it. Didn’t _you_ hear her speech? Our duty is to live, to not give up when things get rough. One look at her and anyone will know she’s been through worse and lived to tell the tale. She told them she’d live for them, and tonight she’ll show them the proof. Your sister knows the fight is not over – not while those Mad Queens hold the South and the East. Not while the Dragon bitch is sending assassins, not while the Lion bitch is demanding Sansa bend the knee. The Red Wolf’s people – _your people_ – need strength. They need courage. They don’t want to fight another war – but they’re going to have to, soon. Her showing them her scars is showing them that she’ll never ask anything of them she isn’t willing to give of herself.”

Jon rubbed his eyes, frustrated with himself. _How did Tormund Giantsbane see what I didn’t?_

“Where were you hiding all this wisdom?”

Tormund laughed, “I’m a complicated man.”

Jon laughed as he shook his head, “No… you’re not.”

Jon knew what he must do, and he set off following the sound of the music.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

**Jaime**

He didn’t know what exactly was said between the young Starks, but whatever it was, it had Sansa’s hackles up. Jaime thought he was about to witness a rematch of their fight at Castle Black, only this time he’d stop it, even if only to keep Sansa’s dress from being ruined.

It was _quite_ a dress.

Jaime often pondered how he could look at someone so breathtakingly beautiful and not think impure thoughts of her. Perhaps Cersei had ruined him of Queens for good, or maybe it was because Sansa was fifteen years his junior. Maybe he would just always prefer blonds. Whatever the reason, he looked at Sansa now and willed himself to be aroused. Ivory skin, cherry lips, hair the color of fire, breasts two perfect little orbs… hips that men would kill for…

And yet, _nothing._ No blood pooling in his loins. _hat the fuck is wrong with me?_

It isn’t that he wanted to be attracted to _Sansa_ , specifically. Really any pretty young thing would do. He just needed to know that he wasn’t entirely impotent for anyone except _her_.

He finally allowed himself to look upon her where she stood sentry along the side wall.

_And there it is. The pooling of blood, the spreading of warmth, the quickening of pulse._

_Am I in love with Brienne of Tarth?_

Truthfully, Jaime didn’t even know what _love_ meant with any woman other than Cersei, and in the years since their separation he often wondered if what was between them truly was love. It was _lust_ – of that he had no doubt. It was _closeness_ that came from growing up with her, sharing a womb with her. It was knowing her every thought, and knowing she knew his. But did all that combine to form love?

Earlier today Jaime had one objective in mind for this evening: find out whether Brienne fancied him. But sometime during the course of the evening he felt a shift. It wasn’t enough to want her and have her want him. He would not risk throwing away their friendship and comradery over a fling. She wasn’t a conquest to him. If he was going to risk what they already had between them, it would be for love and love alone.

He was certain he could ask Lady Sansa about Brienne’s feelings, but first he must find someone to help him understand his own feelings. But who around him might that be? He scanned the faces at his table. _Thoros? No. Tyrion? No. Tormund? Gods no!_

Beric was a possibility, but he had little interaction with the man. Looking up to the High Table he noticed the young Lord Cassel. If that boy wasn’t in love with Sansa than Jaime still had both his hands, though Jaime began to question if the love of a boy was the same as a man’s love. Did he love her because she was beautiful? Because they’d grown up together, like Jaime and Cersei? Jaime’s eyes then fell on Clegane.

_Gods, am I really going to ask for love advice from the Hound?_ Jaime laughed at himself, apparently out loud, as he earned a few sideways glances.

_I’m going to ask love advice from the Hound, who is in love with Sansa Stark, because I think I may be in love with Brienne of Tarth._ He laughed even louder, not caring that he looked a proper fool.

Just then Jon reentered the hall, though avoided his sister’s eyes. Instead he approached Jaime but did not sit down. A few minutes later a few musicians entered. The meal was over, and servants were wasting no time sliding apart the tables to create a dance floor down the center of the room. Many of the drunken guests stood and started pairing off, anxious for the music to begin. But the musicians seemed to be waiting for some queue.

Jon rose, straightened his vest, and walked straight to Sansa’s side. He held out his hand, and though Jaime couldn’t hear him, it was apparent he was asking her to share the first dance. A knowing smile passed between them, and soon Jon led her to the middle of the floor. Each person they passed either gasped or covered his or her mouth. Once the siblings passed Jaime, he knew the cause of their shock – almost all of Sansa’s back was exposed thanks to the cut of her dress, but it wasn’t the fashion statement that caught their attention, it was the countless lash scars running every direction over what was once, no doubt, flawless skin.

With no further delay the music started, and Jon and Sansa danced with the joy of two people who have not a care in the world. After a respectable amount of time had passed, other couples joined in.

Song after song Sansa danced, each time with a new partner. Lord Glover, Lord Cassel, Beric and other Knights, even chubby Maester Samwell. Sometime during the third dance Jaime approached Sandor and stood beside him. The music and general sounds of reverie meant they could converse without being heard even by the people only a few feet away from them. Keeping his eyes on the dance floor Jaime spoke, “Quite an entertaining evening.”

“Aye.”

“I’m waiting my turn for a dance with our Lady, how about you?”

“Don’t dance.”

“Quite the conversationalist though.”

“Then fuck off, I’m not here to _entertain_ you while you wait your turn.”

“Of course not. If I wanted to be entertained, I’d be standing next to Tormund.”

“Then what _do_ you want, Lannister?”

“Can’t a man have a conversation with another man, a fellow _Southron?_ Our kind doesn’t seem to be very popular up here, you know.”

“I was never popular down there, either.”

“Well even so, I know you don’t think _that_ little of me, Clegane, that you wouldn’t have a nice casual conversation with me. For one, you haven’t killed me, and for two… actually it’s just the one.”

“You’re no better or worse than any other cunt in this fucking room, I’ll give you that.”

“Huh! Do you kiss Lady Sansa with that mouth?”

“None of your concern.”

“Very well then… you may not like me, but you must admit we have much in common.”

“What might that be, other than dashing good looks?”

“Hah! Now this _is_ entertaining. Though I must admit, if our lady sees something in you then there must be at least _some_ parts of you that are handsome.”

“Watch your fucking tongue, Lannister!”

“Fine. I won’t talk about her. Though I am curious about _you._ ”

“Aye, people always say I’m fascinating.”

Jaime chuckled, “Fascinating, infuriating… such a fine line between them, don’t you think?”

“How about you get on with whatever you’re chirping about and then leave me in peace?”

“Oh, how selfish of me, I am keeping you from your duty… that wall won’t hold itself up.”

Clegane took a step toward Jaime, who threw his hands up in self-defense, “I yield, I yield! Look, the truth is, I was hoping for a bit of advice – or guidance, really.”

“Your backhand is still weak. Practice with the big bitch.”

“Hilarious. Hard as it may be to believe, I’m not asking the Hound for advice on fighting; I’m asking for advice of a more _personal_ nature.”

Clegane eyed him, “If it itches and smells funny, see a maester, though I’m sure your brother could’ve told you that.”

“Hilarious _again_! … Look, I’m just wondering how you _know._ ”

_Finally got it out._

“Know what?”

“How do you know if what you’re feeling is _real?_ ”

“What feeling?”

“Towards a particular lady.”

_Gods, is he purposely making this difficult?_

Something in the big man’s eyes seemed to soften for the briefest of moments. Jaime dared to think it might be sympathy or, more likely, pity. But he did not respond, so Jaime continued, “How do you know if you’re in love with someone, and not just, lusting for her? You like her, you think she is smart, pretty, funny, whatever all those things are – but there are lots of women like that.”

“Because you don’t feel it for any other women.”

“But even so, how do you know that with that _particular_ woman all those things add up to _love_ and not just general attraction?”

“Because love isn’t a sum of all those things.”

“What?”

Clegane huffed as if inconvenienced, “You don’t love her because she’s pretty. You’d love her even if she weren’t. You don’t love her because she’s sweet; most women aren’t that sweet once you get to know them.”

“But then why _do_ you love her?”

“Why do you love sword fighting? Is it because you like roasting alive in your steel armor? Or how you can’t lift your arms the day after a battle? Do you like the blisters on your hands? The bruises after a day of practice? You love any of that stuff, Lannister?”

“No.”

“Right.”

“But surely a woman’s love isn’t as painful as all that.”

“Aye, it is. It’s bloody painful. It’s painful when she’s around you. It’s painful when she’s not around. It’s painful when she’s sad and you can’t do anything to change it. It’s painful when she leaves. When she’s mad because you said or did something stupid. The whole fucking thing is painful, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“I must say, I’m not sure I want it now.”

“Of course you do.”

“Why?”

“Do you want to stop sword fighting?”

Suddenly it was so obvious, “No, I rather hope to die with a sword in my hand.”

“Exactly. I rather hope to die with the little bird in my arms. When I’m good and old though. Or if I’m to die young, then it better be fighting for her.”

Jaime stared down at his sword.

“Any more questions?” Clegane growled.

“Just one, though I’m afraid you won’t want to answer it.”

“I haven’t wanted to answer any of them. Spit it out.”

“Have you loved her since the beginning? Since you met, that is.”

Clegane looked oddly ashamed, “Aye, I loved her, I just didn’t know it.”

Jaime grinned, “Thank you for your help, friend. Now I’m going to go dance with your lady love.” With a bow he jogged to the dance floor and stole Sansa away from some young Knight.

“My Lady.”

“Ser Jaime.”

“I wanted to applaud your bold fashion choice. Your own design, I assume?”

“My own creation, though I admit the design was partly inspired by Lady Margaery’s wedding gown.”

“I can guess which part that would be!”

Sansa chuckled. Margaery’s tendency to show more skin than decorum would dictate was well known.

“Well, clearly it’s succeeded in conveying your message.”

“What message might that be?”

“That you’re not to be trifled with. That you’re not ashamed of yourself. That you’ve been to Hells and back and will do it all again if it’s what your Kingdom needs.”

Sansa smiled.

“So am I right?”

“Close enough,” she shrugged.

“My lady, you never cease to amaze me. It’s easy to forget I’ve lived almost twice as long as you. Your wisdom and grace belie your youth.”

“Thank you, Ser. And your light-footedness belies your age.”

“Why thank you!” he twirled her around, and for a moment felt young again. “I do hope this doesn’t make me sound mercenary, but I was hoping to take advantage of some of your wisdom.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Though I hope to also benefit from your discretion.”

“Of course. Secret-keeping is one of my greatest talents.”

“And _that_ is saying something!”

“Ask your question, Ser Jaime. I’ll not judge or mock.”

“Then I already know you’re the better half,” he nodded subtly in Clegane’s direction, “not that there was any doubt.”

“So you sought his advice first? I’m mildly insulted.”

“Don’t be. You were occupied at the moment. Truly I need perspectives from both sides.”

“Male and female, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“So the subject of your inquiry is love, then?”

“Nothing gets past you, my lady.”

“And the subject of your love is a certain strong lady that we are both quite fond of?”

Jaime felt himself blush, “That obvious?”

“Not to anyone else, I’m sure. And not to her, if that is a concern.”

“It is, as a matter of fact.”

“You wish to know whether she returns your feelings.”

“You are _so_ much easier to talk with than your man!”

“That is _not_ saying much…”

Jaime laughed heartily and looked to the man himself. “He is fun to rile, though, don’t you think? Now don’t stab me with the dagger I know is hidden under your skirts, but I’m going to pull you closer. I’m doing you a favor: in under two minutes he’ll be down here to cut in. I’m fairly certain he _can_ dance... hope so anyway, I’d hate to see the damage done if _those_ feet step on your pretty little toes.”

Sansa threw her head back in laughter, “Hold me closer, Jaime Lannister, and listen well, since we only have two minutes.” He tightened their embrace, almost scandalously. “The short answer is _yes_ – she returns your feelings. The long answer is that she doesn’t know it yet, and if you make a move now, you’ll likely scare her off. I know from personal experience that if a person thinks they are unlovable, undesirable, then all the love and desire you show them will not be received as such. She’ll think you’re mocking her.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Show her, very gradually, how you feel, but do not _tell_ her.”

“Show her how?”

“Spend time with her – _outside_ the training yard. Ask her to go for a ride with you. Compliment her on things that have nothing to do with her swordsmanship or footwork, but ease into it. Don’t tell her that her eyes are pools you could drown in; instead, when she wears a blue shirt, tell her that it brings out her eyes. Tell her how she makes you feel, that you feel comfortable around her, that you trust her, things of that nature. When she returns from a mission, tell her you missed her, but don’t dwell on it...”

“…And for my part, I’ll drop subtle hints to ease her into the idea that she is a lovely woman that any man would be lucky to have. Perhaps I’ll say I overheard some squires whispering about how pretty her blond hair is, or how they like a woman who is strong and can defend herself.”

“Just make sure she doesn’t fall in love with the squires!”

Sansa chuckled, “Don’t worry, she won’t. And one other thing, show her your weakness. I dare say she idolizes you a bit. If you let her see that you aren’t perfect, that you have your own fears and insecurities, she’ll be more comfortable opening up to you.”

“I should have you write this all down.”

“Well if you forget it, we’ll just have to dance again.”

“Er… I think that might not be the best idea, for reasons of my personal safety.”

Sansa turned and saw Sandor approaching, “What might not be the best idea, Lannister?”

Sansa spoke casually, “Oh nothing you need worry about. I was just propositioning Ser Jaime, but as you clearly heard, he spurned my advances.”

“Everyone’s a fucking smart ass around here.”

“She’s the smart one, I’m just an ass,” Jaime handed Sansa off to Sandor and spun his exit.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

If there was only one thing that could get Sandor Clegane onto a dance floor it was the sight of the handsome golden lion with his paws – one real and one cast of precious metal – all over the little bird. When the cocky Lannister handed Sansa off Sandor had no choice but to dance – something he’d seen done many times but never actually participated in. It seemed simple enough, not much more complicated than the footwork employed during a fight.

“What was the Kingslayer chattering to you about?”

“Same thing he was chattering to you about.”

Sandor snorted, “Fucking nance. Lovesick fool.”

“So how long did it take you to guess the identity of the object of his affection?”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t know?” Sansa blushed.

“No, who is it?”

“You’ll have to figure it out on your own then; I’m sworn to secrecy. I just thought someone with your powers of observation would have figured it out long ago.”

After a brief pause Sandor took a guess, “Ser Wench?”

“No,” Sansa looked away as she answered.

He appraised her a moment, “Liar.”

“Sandor, you’ve been holding out on me. You’re a fine dancer.”

“And _you’re_ trying to change the subject.”

“Guilty as charged. Honestly though, I’m exhausted and have barely had anything to drink, can we go sit and drink some wine?”

“Two of my favorite things.”

He led her back to the High Table, and they spent the better part of an hour sipping wine and watching the dancing. Even Sandor was entertained by the _unique_ dancing of the Wildlings. Sansa almost spit out her wine when Tormund threw some passing wench over his shoulder and spun her around as if she was a prize he’d won. Jon had to intercede, though the girl seemed no worse for wear after the handsome _Lord Stark_ came to her rescue.

Sandor watched Sansa smiling and laughing. _I could spend the rest of my life like this._

He was tempted to ask her about the colors of her gown but thought better of it and found a different topic of conversation, “Your speech was good, little bird. How long did you spend writing it?”

“Actually I had a very different speech prepared but I got some last-minute inspiration. Truthfully I improvised most of it.”

“Aye? Then I’m doubly impressed, though I dare say you should have saved it… would’ve made a good battle rally.”

“I fear we won’t have long to wait,” she shook her head.

“Because of Cersei’s _ultimatum?_ You know that bitch won’t invade during winter. I doubt she even has enough men, since the Tyrell’s packed up and left.”

Sansa shook her head again, “Not Cersei, the _other_ Mad Queen. I have a bad feeling.”

“Mmm… I can’t say I disagree. But she must be more concerned with the throne than with the North.”

“She’s concerned enough to send assassins.”

“Aye, but that’s a far cry from invading. The North is vast and brutal. King’s Landing is concentrated – and warm.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Sandor could tell the fear was weighing on her and was searching for more words when Tyrion and Tormund stumbled up to them. Tyrion was clearly well into his cups, “You two don’t look _nearly_ drunk enough. My lady, oh… and might I compliment you on your dress – and _thank_ you… I was running out of things to fantasize about at night… anyway, you must _drink up_. The festivities are moving _outside_ and in case you didn’t know, it’s bloody cold out there.”

“Didn’t you once offer to be my cupbearer, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion’s eyes brightened, “My lady! Your recollection is impeccable! Don’t worry, I shall not fail you!”

He scampered off in search of wine, but Tormund had other priorities, “Lady Wolf, have you had the chance to write any songs about me?”

“I’m afraid not, Tormund. I’ve been rather preoccupied.”

“Bah!” he waved her away and stumbled back toward the door just as Tyrion reappeared with several wineskins in his arms, “Drink up my lady. The night is young and so are you. The dead are dead, the living are alive, and… oh fuck it, that’s enough. Let’s go!” He grabbed Sansa’s hand and pulled her with surprising force for a drunken dwarf. Sandor grabbed her cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

…

As the night wore on it was apparent that everyone had taken their Queen’s advice. Celebrate they did. Singing, dancing, games. It was much like the feast before the battle, though with none of the tension that comes from the looming threat of death.

Surprisingly, it took another two hours before the first appeals were made for Sansa to grace them with her songs. This time, though, she barely put up a fight.

First, she joined one of the fiddle players in a rendition of a song Sandor vaguely remembered from his past. The fiddle player had to help her remember the lyrics, but she seemed to have known the song well, once upon a time. Sandor suspected it was the kind of song frequently played at Northern celebrations and thought that may have been where he’d heard it before – at the feast to celebrate King Robert’s arrival at Winterfell years ago… when Sandor Clegane first laid eyes on Sansa Stark.

> _Well life on the farm is kinda laid back  
>  Ain't much an old country boy like me can't hack  
> It's early to rise, early in the sack  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _Well a simple kinda life never did me no harm  
>  A raisin' me a family and workin' on a farm  
> My days are all filled with an easy country charm  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _W_ _ell I got me a fine wife I got me an ole fiddle  
>  When the sun's comin' up I got eggs on the griddle  
> Life ain't nothin' but a funny funny riddle  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _When the work's all done and the sun's settin' low  
>  I pull out my fiddle and I rosin up the bow  
> The babes are asleep so I keep it kinda low  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _I'd play Sally Goodin all day if I could  
>  But the Lord and my wife wouldn't take it very good  
> So I fiddle when I can, work when I should  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _Well I got me a fine wife I got me an ole fiddle  
>  When the sun's comin' up I got cakes on the griddle  
> Life ain't nothin' but a funny funny riddle  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _Well I wouldn't trade my life for diamonds and jewels  
>  I never was one of them greedy ole fools  
> I'd rather have my fiddle and my farmin' tools  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _My daddy taught me young how to hunt and how to whittle  
>  Taught me how to work and play a tune on the fiddle  
> Taught me how to love and how to give just a little  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_
> 
> _Well I got me a fine wife I got me an ole fiddle  
>  When the sun's comin' up I got cakes on the griddle  
> Life ain't nothin' but a funny funny riddle  
> Thank Gods I'm a northern boy_

The crowd of Northerners cheered raucously at the song’s conclusion. The Wildlings – or Free Folk as Sansa insisted they be called – seemed equally entertained by the lively jig. It wasn’t Sandor’s preference – too cheerful – and he was even less pleased by the looks the young fiddle player kept sending Sansa’s way, though she seemed not to notice.

For a few minutes Sansa sipped her wine quietly while many people came to speak with her. It didn’t take long though for the crowd to clamor for more, and she obliged them with a slower song of her own creation.

> _Ten years ago, on a cold dark night  
>  Someone was killed, 'neath the crescent moon light  
> There were few at the scene, but they all agreed  
> That the slayer who ran, looked a lot like me_
> 
> _The judge said son, what is your alibi  
>  If you were somewhere else, then you won't have to die  
> I spoke not a word, though it meant my life  
> For I'd been in the arms of my best friend's wife_
> 
> _She walks these hills in a long black veil  
>  She visits my grave when the night winds wail  
> Nobody knows, nobody sees  
> Nobody knows but me_
> 
> _Oh, the scaffold is high and eternity's near  
>  She stood in the crowd and shed not a tear  
> But late at night, when the North wind blows  
> In a long black veil, she cries over my bones_
> 
> _She walks these hills in a long black veil  
>  She visits my grave when the night winds wail  
> Nobody knows, nobody sees  
> Nobody knows but me_

More than a few cheeks were wet, and Sandor himself felt moved by the lyrics and the melody. Seemingly not wanting the mood to remain glum, Sansa began another tune that started out rather haunting, but became much more upbeat.

> _Regrets collect like old friends  
>  Here to relive your darkest moments  
> I can see no way, I can see no way  
> And all of the Shadows come out to play_
> 
> _And every Deep One wants his pound of flesh  
>  But I like to keep some things to myself  
> I like to keep my curtains drawn  
> Cause it's always darkest before the dawn_
> 
> _And I've been a fool and I've been blind  
>  I could never leave the past behind  
> I can see no way, I can see no way  
> I'm always dragging that horse around_
> 
> _Our love is pastured such a mournful sound  
>  Tonight I'm gonna bury that horse in the ground  
> I like to keep my conscience strong  
> But it's always darkest before the dawn_
> 
> _Shake it out, shake it off  
>  Shake it out, shake it off, ooh whoa  
> Shake it out, shake it off  
> Shake it out, shake it off, ooh whoa  
> _ _And it's hard to dance with a demon on your back  
>  So shake him off, oh whoa_
> 
> _Cause I am done with my graceless heart  
>  So tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart  
> I like to keep my faith in song  
> _ _C_ _ause it's always darkest before the dawn_
> 
> _Shake it out, shake it off  
>  Shake it out, shake it off, ooh whoa  
> Shake it out, shake it off  
> Shake it out, shake it off, ooh whoa  
> A_ _nd it's hard to dance with a demon on your back  
>  So shake him off, oh whoa_
> 
> _And I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't  
>  So here's to drinks in the dark at the end of my road  
> And I'm ready to suffer and I'm ready to hope  
> It's a shot in the dark and right at my throat  
> 'Cause looking for Heavens, found the Hells in me  
> L_ _ooking for Heavens, found the Hells in me_
> 
> _Shake it out, shake it off  
>  Shake it out, shake it off, ooh whoa  
> Shake it out, shake it off  
> Shake it out, shake it off, ooh whoa  
> A_ _nd it's hard to dance with a demon on your back  
>  So shake him off, oh whoa_

As always, Sandor was astounded by her talents. Anytime he’d tried to compliment her on her songs, though, she would just shrug and say she’d had lots of time on her hands – time in King’s Landing, time in the Vale, time in Winterfell. She was a captive with nothing to entertain herself but singing and sewing. He never pushed, knowing she was uncomfortable with the praise, though he knew it took more than time to create music. Her talent was profound and, watching the faces around her as she sung, it was clear he wasn’t the only one to recognize it as such.

Sansa curtseyed politely at the applause but then whispered something in the fiddler’s ear. The man smiled and soon was playing the rowdy tavern song _Bear and the Maiden Fair._ Sansa joined the dancing – if you could call it that. It was mostly men jumping around and women hooking arms with each other and twirling around. Tormund caught Sansa’s arm and spun her around until she looked like she might lose her supper. He mercifully stopped spinning and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, his other catching an unsuspecting Jon Stark, and the threesome swayed back and forth to the song’s conclusion. Two embarrassed Starks and one shameless Wildling.

Tyrion’s surprisingly loud voice sounded above them all, “Little known fact, that song actually is about a _real_ bear, not a hairy man. And it turns out Tormund is the Maiden Fair.”

Everyone including Sandor and Brienne laughed, though no one louder than Tormund himself, “You know me too well, little man.”

The lively music and dancing continued for over an hour before many seemed to begin to succumb to exhaustion and drink – mostly the latter, by the look of it. The calls for Sansa to sing another song began again. Tyrion requested a sweet melody they could carry with them to their beds. Sansa smiled, seeming to have a tune for just such an occasion. Her eyes met Sandor for a moment, and he wondered if she might sing one of the songs she had sung for him in private. He felt a peculiar pang of jealousy at the thought until what she started playing sounded new to his ears:

> _Our lives always tended to trade  
> _ _Will they hate me for all the choices I’ve made?  
> _ _Will they stop when they see me again?  
> _ _I can't stop now I know who I am_
> 
> _Now I'm all yours, I'm not afraid  
> _ _And you're all mine, say what they may  
> _ _And all your love I'll take to the grave  
> _ _And all my life starts now_

Through the first two verses Sansa was looking at the crowd, but as she began the third her eyes found Sandor again and she began walking toward him while still playing and singing.

> _They can't tear me down  
> _ _They can't take you out of my thoughts  
> _ _Under every scar there's a battle I've fought  
> _ _Will they stop when they see us again?  
> _ _I can't stop now I know who I am_
> 
> _Now I'm all yours, I'm not afraid  
> _ _And you're all mine, say what they may  
> _ _And all your love I'll take to my grave  
> _ _And all my life starts, starts now_

By the time she finished, she and Sandor were only separated by the space her mandolin occupied. She smiled at him expectantly as he stood stunned. The crowd seemed to share his sentiment as everyone within earshot of Sansa’s song was completely still and silent.

_That was for you, dog, that was the song she wrote the other night. That was her statement. She is wearing your House colors, and she_ did _do it on purpose. Brave little bird…_

_…and now it’s your turn._

He took her face in both hands and kissed her right there in the courtyard of Winterfell, for hundreds around them to see.

Still holding the neck of her mandolin she wrapped her arms around his shoulders as his moved to her waist. He lifted her off her feet, and it was then that the stupor finally broke and everyone in the crowd cheered. The Free Folk let out their usual howls though delivered like catcalls.

Not wanting to test anyone’s limits he pulled away but gave her one more kiss on the forehead, mumbling against her skin, “Woman, I think you may be the maddest queen of them all.” She smiled up at him and it was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder right there.

Tyrion once again got the crowd’s attention by standing on a table and raising his cup, “To our Queen! May she have every happiness she deserves!”

Everyone raised their cups to join the toast, and more than a few began the chant, “The Queen in the North!” Sandor knew Sansa hated it, but smiled graciously, nonetheless.

Sandor was surprised when men started coming up to either shake his hand, grasp his arm, or smack him on the back. Tormund, Jaime, Beric, Thoros, Tyrion, and Derik were among them. Jon and Ghost approached next, “Clegane.”

“Lord Stark.”

“I’ll never understand it, but then again there is much I’ll never understand.”

“On that we agree.”

Jon snorted, “Though I think you’ll appreciate that, as the last man of House Stark, it’s my duty to warn you…”

“I’d expect no less.”

“…if you ever hurt my sister, if you find some way to fuck up what the Gods have blessed you with, it won’t be my sword you face, it’ll be my wolf.”

“Seems fair.”

“Then, since we understand each other, I wish you luck with… whatever _this_ is,” he pointed between Sandor and Sansa while raising his eyebrows in jest.

“My thanks, Lord Stark.”

Sandor suddenly worried that people may have taken this as some type of betrothal announcement.

_Is it a betrothal?_

He whispered into Sansa’s ear, “Want to let me in on the secret, little bird?”

“What secret?”

“What is this – what are we?”

“We’re Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane.”

“That’s all?”

“Were you hoping for more?”

He smiled but shook his head, “No. For the first time in my life, I’m happy to be Sandor Clegane if it means being with Sansa Stark.”

“Good, then we’re in agreement.”

“Though a warning would have been appreciated.”

“And deprive myself of the look on your face? I’m afraid that was out of the question.”

“Fine, you can find some way to make it up to me.”

She grinned like the cat who’s caught the canary, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

They laid in each other’s arms, sated and happy. Sansa was nearly asleep when Sandor spoke, “That song about the woman in the black veil – who was that about?”

Sansa yawned, “No one in particular, though inspired by several people. Men who died to protect someone else, sometimes even unwittingly. Men who were honorable even if no one knew it. I thought of my father dying a traitor even though his allegations against Cersei were true. I thought of Ser Dontos, once I stopped believing Petyr’s lies about him. Harry, dying in Petyr’s scheme to make me Robert Arryn’s heir. Ser Jaime saving the city by killing the Mad King but getting no thanks for it. And after Brienne told me you died near Saltpans, I thought of you. That is when I finished the song. That is when I wrote the chorus, because I wished desperately there was a grave somewhere to visit, to cry at. I wanted to go there and bury your bones myself. Truthfully, I wanted to bury myself with them.”

Sandor turned to look at her, but she would not meet his eyes as she continued as if confessing, “I know you’ll say I was some silly little girl that built you up as some kind of Knight from a song; that you weren’t worthy of my thoughts, but I did think of you all the time after you left. I never stopped thinking about you. I wondered where you were… I prayed for you, too, and about you. Sometimes I’d pray you’d find me and take me away. Other times, when I was feeling less selfish, I’d pray that you were safe somewhere, that you’d found something to make you happy. A wife, a family… a simple life without Kings and fighting and blood and fire. I wrote a song about that, too, though it’s rather embarrassing. I know you didn’t think of me that way back then—”

“You’re wrong, little bird, I thought of you all the time. While I was with your little sister, while I was on the Quiet Isle. I couldn’t get you out of my head, and Gods know I tried. I’m ashamed of the ways I thought about you at times, but most times it was just guilt. I spoke of you to Elder Brother once. I asked him why a naïve little girl like you should affect me so, and he said it’s because you made me want to be one of those Knights in your bloody songs. I broke a mug at that, but, wise fucker that he was, he knew he was right.”

This time Sansa did meet his eyes, and the happiness he found in hers made him glad he chose to confess this part of his story.

“So then, sing me that song you wrote while wondering about me.”

Sansa blushed, “No, I told you, it’s embarrassing!”

“Good. We need to find things that bring you down to my level, make this relationship make sense.”

“Don’t mock me after I sing it.”

“Fine.”

Sansa donned a light robe and retrieved her instrument, then sat on the edge of her bed. Sandor secretly loved this part: when she would hum the tune, look at the ceiling searching for nearly-forgotten words, strum a few notes, find her key, and then take a breath to begin. He always had to fight back a smile, knowing she’d interpret it as mocking.

> _You could be my silver spring  
> _ _Blue green colors flashing  
> _ _I would be your only dream  
> _ _Your shining snow ocean crashing_
> 
> _And don't you say that she is pretty  
> _ _And don’t you say that she loves you  
> _ _Darling, I don't wanna know_
> 
> _I'll begin not to want you  
> _ _Turn around, see me running  
> _ _I'll say I knew you years ago  
> _ _Tell myself you never loved me… oh no_
> 
> _And don't you say that she is pretty  
> _ _And don’t you say that she loves you  
> _ _Darling, I don't wanna know  
> _ _Oh, no  
> _ _And can you tell me was it worth it  
> _ _Really, I don't wanna know_
> 
> _Time casts a spell on you, but you won't forget me  
> _ _I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me_
> 
> _[Mandolin playing]_
> 
> _T_ _ime casts a spell on you, but you won't forget me  
> _ _I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me_  
>  _I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you  
> _ _You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman who loved you_
> 
> _Y_ _ou could be my silver spring  
> _ _My blue green colors flashing…_

Sandor was speechless for a moment. Earlier tonight – what felt like a lifetime ago – he’d told the Kingslayer that he loved Sansa since he first met her, though he didn’t know it at the time. If her song spoke true, she had loved him just as long.

She didn’t look at him, seemingly afraid of his reaction, so she didn’t see his kiss coming. He gently tossed her mandolin across the bed and took her again, slowly, deeply. They fell asleep for good as the sun was making its presence known in the cloudless winter sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credits: 
> 
> Country Boy - John Denver  
> Long Black Veil - Johnny Cash  
> Shake it Out - Florence + the Machine  
> Eclipse/All Yours - Metric  
> Silver Spring - Fleetwood Mac (one of my all time favorite songs, in case anyone cares)
> 
> So we learned some things in this chapter... Sandor's love for Sansa was almost at first sight, though he denied it even to himself. Sansa's love for Sandor was born sometime during their shared time in KL, though she was probably too young and inexperienced to realize what it was until after she left KL and couldn't get the Hound out of her head. Maybe Sandor was the same - though he is much older than Sansa he is so inexperienced in romantic relationships that they were probably somewhat on the same level during their shared time in KL.
> 
> They only both realized the full depth of their need for other during their time apart. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.


	75. Secrets Revealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor's plan backfires. Sansa shares her past.

**Sansa**

The days that followed Sansa’s public proclamation of her love for Sandor Clegane were not what she had expected. She had been prepared to defend their relationship – he is honorable; he has saved me time and again, including when he served the Lannisters; he offered to help me escape King’s Landing; he isn’t interested in my lands or titles or claims; he may have been born in the South but he is every bit a Northerner (just look at the man!)

Instead, the questions she received were the ones that she hadn’t prepared for: When will you marry? Will he take the Stark name? Will he be King or Consort?

And even worse, the assumptions that were made: So glad to hear of you and Lord Clegane – best marry as soon as possible, the North needs more Starks!

It put Sansa on edge. She felt she was lying every time she just nodded.

_Do they have the right to know I can’t have children?..._

_Will they want to name Jon the King in the North once they find out?..._

_Would that be such a bad thing?_

In truth, she’d gladly let Jon be King. He could name her Castellan, or Hand. She could finally rest. But her concern was that Jon would be too conservative. Sansa knew war with Daenerys and Cersei was inevitable, much as she hated to think of the Northern lives it would cost. Would Jon prefer to bend the knee given the chance?

To further worsen her mood Sandor seemed to start trying to control her as soon as she’d declared her feelings for him. It was odd though, he didn’t try to interfere with the serious affairs of the Kingdom or Castle – he wasn’t trying to exert control on the North, he was trying to exert control on Sansa herself.

The morning after the feast they slept late – as did everyone. When they finally woke, he insisted she spend the day resting. _“You can take one day off from being Queen. There’s no work to be done anyway – everyone is still sleeping off their drink.”_

He ordered a servant to bring them a meal in her quarters, and afterwards a bath for her. At first, she thought it was sweet – he was showing his love even though he still couldn’t say the words (not that she needed him to).

But a sennight later he was still doing the same. Having breakfast ordered, even though she was rarely hungry in the mornings. At night, while he sat sharpening his sword and she writing her letters, he would pour them water instead of wine. He’d also try to lure her into bed even when she had much work uncomplete. _“You’re insatiable!”_ she jested. But after their coupling he would practically hold her down to keep her in bed. _“I’m not tired yet! I have more work to tend to.”_

It was such a drastic change from the way he’d been in the past that she started regretting her statement the night of the feast.

The eighth day of this behavior she finally could take no more.

“I’m not hungry!” she yelled as she threw a basket of warm rolls right into her hearth, too angry to care about the waste, “And I’m growing rather weary of you treating me like a child!”

He looked genuinely hurt, “I’m not treating you like a child. Can’t a man take care of his woman?”

“Do I need you to take care of me? Did I ask you to?”

“No, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t, though.”

“Perhaps not, but now I am telling you – _you shouldn’t_ – so please stop. I can feed myself. I can bathe myself. I will go to sleep when I want to and wake up when I want to. If you don’t like my living habits, then go back to your own quarters!”

He stood, now looking angry instead of hurt, “As a matter of fact, _your grace_ , you don’t feed yourself, and you barely sleep. A Queen or King should be tending court in the morning, not after lunch!”

“No one is bothered by the hours I keep except you. Do you think the smallfolk who come to petition me want to rise before dawn to get here in time to see me?”

“It’s not healthy, is all I’m saying.”

“You’re not a maester.”

“Aye, but the maester agrees!” As soon as the words were out his face reddened, and he looked away.

She narrowed her eyes at him, “You spoke to the maester… about me?”

He didn’t respond, but she knew that was confirmation.

“Which maester?”

After a few seconds he finally replied, “Tarly. But he didn’t know I was talking about you.”

She crossed her arms defiantly, “Well, don’t hold back, tell me this advice Maester Tarly gave you.”

“Sansa, it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh I beg to differ! It seems to matter a great deal to you. You’re a busy man, yet you made time to go speak to a maester about me. It must be very important to you.”

“Sansa, can we please forget about this? I’m sorry, alright!”

She ignored his plea, “Why did you speak to Samwell about me?”

“Sansa, _please._ ”

“Why?!”

“I just wanted to help you.”

“Help with what?”

“It doesn’t matter, please just forget it.”

“Help with what?!”

“With your condition, alright?! What you told Jon and I about…”

Why was Sandor worrying about that? Unless…

She felt as if he’d slapped her. “You want to have children,” it was half question, half statement.

“Little bird…”

“Well?”

“Fine, yes, it would be nice to have children.”

“Then don’t let me stop you,” she waved him away and sat at her table to work.

“Little bird…” he tried to touch her shoulder, but she slapped his hand way.

“Go on, I have work to do.”

“Would you listen to me a moment?”

“No, no I don’t think I want to.”

He kneeled down and grabbed both her hands, “Listen to me, little bird. I never wanted children, alright? But you do, I know you do… and truthfully yes, I want to have children, but only if it’s with you.”

“And you think by getting me to eat a little more and sleep a little more I’ll magically be able to have children?”

“The maester said it’s possible yes, if you also try to avoid stress.”

“Hah, well that will never happen. I’m a Queen during wartime…”

“Fine, but would you not want to try doing the things you _can_ do?”

“It isn’t that simple, Sandor.”

“Why? Tell me why. Tell me why you barely eat. Tell me why you don’t let yourself fall asleep before midnight, if that.”

“You don’t want to hear these stories any more than I want to tell them.”

He studied her eyes a moment, “You’re wrong. I want to know everything about you, about your past. I know it will make me angry, or sad, or both. But it’s your story and I want to know it. Have I kept anything from you?”

She shook her head, “No.”

“Then tell me… please. Let me share your burden.”

Sansa sighed, “It started with Petyr, and then it was even worse with Ramsay…”

It was hard to get the words out, but Sandor held her hands, stroked her palms with his thumbs. He didn’t look in her eyes, not for his benefit but for hers.

“Petyr wasn’t so bad… but he would make comments anytime I took an extra helping of dinner or ate sweets more than two days in a row. He didn’t tell me not to, he just would say things like, _“your mother always kept her figure, ate like a bird even when she was a young girl… even after bearing five healthy children she always stayed so fit.”_ Or sometimes he’d say that if I wasn’t careful, I’d get plump, and no husband would take me. I swear he was the one who wanted me thin, but he’d say that men want women they can wrap their arms around twice….”

“It wasn’t so bad, really. I just ate normally, didn’t over-indulge. But then Ramsay… he only fed me once a day – the evening meal, and even then he would humiliate me in front of everyone if I took more than he deemed adequate.” She felt tears threatening, “Even when he learned I was pregnant, he didn’t allow me much more… a small breakfast in the morning, an apple, or a roll, or a bit of cheese… he said he wouldn’t see his wife getting fat for another man’s child…”

“I was so hungry at first, but eventually I was so afraid to eat, so afraid to displease him, that the sight of food repulsed me. My appetite would only come at night, for supper, and even then, it was weak. It’s still that way to this day. I see food and I feel fear.” She laughed at herself, “It’s so silly, so irrational…”

“No little bird, it’s not. I told you I still flinch every time I light a fire. I’d still prefer to sleep in the cold, given my druthers. When you come to associate something with pain, or fear, it’s hard to shake it.”

She looked at him and wondered if she’d ever stop underestimating his powers of compassion, of sympathy.

“It’s the same with sleeping. Nighttime is when they’d… when they’d come to me. Sometime after the castle fell asleep, but before the early hours of the morning. No matter how tired I was I could never fall asleep, just like a deer won’t sleep when it knows there are wolves nearby. I would lay there, waiting. If they didn’t come by midnight, I knew I was safe for the night, and I’d finally fall asleep. I know Petyr is far away, I know Ramsay is dead, but my mind still won’t let its guard down until after midnight.”

She could see this admission was hard for Sandor to stomach, but he kept his rage in check.

“So Littlefinger…”

“Yes. He never hurt me though, he was never rough or cruel…”

Sandor finally looked up at her, “You’re going to defend that fucker? What, because he didn’t bring knives to bed like the bastard cunt did you think he wasn’t cruel?”

She rose, feeling an odd need to defend herself by defending Petyr, “I don’t mean that. I’m not saying what he did was right, but I could have stopped it, and I didn’t. I was afraid, I was weak, I never stood up to him…”

“And what would happen if you had, hmm? He would have apologized and given you a bouquet of roses? He took what he could because he had you under his thumb!”

“I know, I’m just saying, it could have been worse…”

“He’s a fucking monster, Sansa. No different than Ramsay. No different from Joffrey.”

Now she was the one to feel angry, “You think so? You think it’s all black and white? Then I wonder which category Sandor Clegane falls into… you always say you’re not a good man, does that mean you’re a bad man? Are you just taking advantage of me, same as Petyr did?”

She had him cornered with that, but he did not back down entirely, “All I’m saying is you shouldn’t try to defend Littlefinger. He doesn’t deserve it.”

She stared at him a moment. _Does he think I’m defending Petyr? I’m only saying it could have been much, much worse._

“Come with me.”

He followed her out into the hall and to another room. She unlocked it with the key she wore around her neck. She held the door open for him, and he hesitantly entered.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

As he looked around the sparse room as the little bird spoke, “I do not defend Petyr Baelish. He is evil, he is conniving, but he is not a monster… My _prison_ at the Vale was a castle. I had free rein, I had pretty dresses, I had lessons, and even friends. I had a bedroom with pillows and soft things, not that I needed them. _This…”_ she gestured to the room around them, “was my prison in Winterfell…”

She stared at him as he looked around. The room was small, designed as servant quarters, not family quarters. The window was large but had iron bars running across it. There were no decorations on the walls. The only furniture a bed, a small dresser, and a small table with two primitive wooden chairs. There were no rugs. There was no hearth, only a brazier, currently unlit. The floor on the right side of the bed was stained dark reddish brown – a color Sandor immediately recognized as old blood.

The bed itself was a simple design with four posts. Each post had rope tied to it. The sight made Sandor feel like he was going to be sick.

Sansa pulled back the blanket and sheets from the mattress, revealing two more large blood stains, one near the head of the bed, one at the middle. Sansa pointed at the first: “Ramsay’s death blood,” and at the second, “my life blood.”

Sandor shifted uneasily, unsure what to say that would have any meaning.

“I don’t complain about what I endured here, about the cuts, the burns, the lashes… and do you know why? Because I would endure it all a hundred times over again, if it meant never having to see Ramsay kill my son…”

He’d expect her to be crying, but her eyes were emotionless, dead…

“You want children? I understand that. I want them, too. But not in this world… you think you know pain, Sandor? You think your burns were painful? You think when I died it was painful? Take it from me, trust me on this if you never trust me on anything again, you don’t know pain until you’ve lost a child. You’ve not seen a monster until you’ve seen a man snap your babe’s neck…”

“The day you become a father, you will become weak, because there will always be an easy way for someone to break you. I always dreamed of being a mother, as I’ve said. I wanted a litter of snotty tikes at my skirts. But that was before I knew that all the joy a child can bring you will never outweigh the pain you’ll feel if you lose him.”

Sandor wanted to argue with her. Anyone could lose a child, you didn’t need war or an evil husband to have it happen to you, but looking at the little bird, looking at the coldness in her eyes right now, he knew his words would fall on deaf ears.

He reached for her hand, but she turned and walked to the door, waiting for him to exit so she could lock it again. She said not a word as she entered her room, retrieved her cloak, and began walking down the hall. With nothing else he could do, he fell in behind her, guarding the woman who needed no guards, because she could never be hurt again.


	76. Possibility

**Sandor**

For the next few days he did not see his little bird – only the Ice Queen. He silently cursed himself. _Even when you mean well, you still find a way to fuck things up, dog._

Theon, Jon, and Tyrion individually asked him if he knew the cause of Sansa’s change in mood. His response to each was, _“Aye, me and my big fucking mouth.”_

On the fourth day he got a taste of his own medicine when Jon pulled him aside on his way to his quarters to take a nap while Theon and Beric were guarding Sansa. “Talk,” was Jon’s only command.

Sandor hated talking, but Jon was the only person to whom he could tell the true cause of Sansa’s woes, so he found himself explaining what had happened – how he had tried to get her to eat breakfast, to go to sleep earlier – and how she reacted when finding out his motives. Expecting Jon to scold him he was surprised when the boy only had a hopeful question, “So, Sam said she could improve her condition?”

“He said it’s _possible_.”

“And she doesn’t want to because she’s afraid?”

“More or less. If I’d known that, I’d not have tried to interfere.”

Jon studied him for a moment before saying words that astounded him, “You’re a good man, Clegane.”

Sandor had no response so Jon continued, “Even if she doesn’t want to have children, it wouldn’t hurt to take Sam’s advice. It would improve her health, at a minimum.”

“Aye, well _you_ tell her that. I’m never going to tell her what to do again. I’m going to keep my mouth shut. She can make her own decisions.”

Jon smiled at him, “I doubt you’ll be able to keep that promise… and for what it’s worth, it wasn’t wrong of you to try to help. Whatever your relationship is, and I really don’t need to know the specifics, but I know enough about love that when two people love each other, it does give them some rights to the other person’s… _state._ A wife reminds her husband to pack extra socks before riding for battle, knowing he’s likely only thinking about his horse and weapons. The wife is right to worry, even if the husband thinks it’s trifling; cold kills as well as a blade.”

“Well, again… _you_ tell her that.”

Jon laughed this time, “Don’t worry, Clegane. Sansa lived with me for over a month after she escaped the Boltons. She would fall into these moods, like she was frozen. She would still walk and talk and speak, but it was… mechanical. It reminded me of this wooden bird I saw once as a child. A man in a traveling fair brought it. He would wind this metal key and the bird would walk on these two skinny legs. All the children and even the adults were entranced by it… how a thing made of wood could move like a living thing. But to me there was something disturbing about it. Yes, it moved like a real bird, yes, it resembled a real bird due to the carvings and paint… but its eyes were blank, dead….”

“Anyway, the point is, I saw that same look in Sansa’s eyes. She walked around but her eyes were blank. She spoke but her words held no emotion. She would always snap out of it eventually. Sometimes the spell lasted an hour, sometimes a day, sometimes a few days. I initially thought it was shock, but I’ve never known shock to come and go like that…”

“It doesn’t,” Sandor agreed. He’d seen plenty of men in shock during and after battle.

Jon nodded, “When Theon explained to us all what happened… what Ramsay did…” Jon’s voice broke but he continued, “how he broke Sansa but didn’t know it because she went numb instead of turning into some crying, pleading fool… I finally understood. When something threatens to hurt her, physically or in this case emotionally, she closes herself off. Like a possum playing dead.”

Jon’s words echoed in Sandor’s mind, but not for any reason Jon would have fathomed. Sandor felt like Jon was describing _him –_ the way he closed himself off from the world after Gregor burned his face and stayed closed off until the little bird pecked away at his armor with nothing but her innocence.

_An innocence she’ll never have again._

Sandor thought about her words the morning they rode to Winter Town together. She said she wondered whether Sandor loved her as she was today, or was he in love with the little bird he knew in King’s Landing? He truthfully hadn’t thought about it, he just reacted, but he was thinking about it now. _Is it possible to love both Sansas?_

He didn’t realize Jon was staring at him, “What’s wrong, Clegane?”

“Hmm? Nothing…” he knew Jon didn’t believe him, but he did not press.

…

That night Sandor had a bath brought to his room. His muscles ached from the tension that had been building for days, not to mention the rigorous training he practiced every day. He had just removed his tunic when someone knocked at his door. He was surprised to open it and see the little bird on the other side. Without looking at him she asked to come in, and he held the door open. Upon entering she noticed the steaming bath, “Oh… I’m sorry… I can come back…”

“It’s alright, little bird.”

She nodded, “Please though, enjoy your bath while the water is hot.”

She looked away as he finished undressing and sunk into the tub. The hot water felt good, but he was nervous about the conversation that was about to occur. Before he could dwell on it though, she eased his mind, “I’m sorry about the other morning…”

“You don’t need to apologize, I’m the one who should apologize.”

“No, I do. I know you were only trying to help. I only got mad because… well it hurt me because I thought you were happy with me… it hurt to think that you might want something that I can’t give you.”

Sandor took her hand, “Little bird, you are more than I ever wanted, and certainly more than I deserve. I only wanted it because I thought it would make you happy, but I shouldn’t have interfered.”

“No, I don’t want to be that way… not with you. I’m just not accustomed to men doing things for me for my benefit instead of their own. I reacted like you were Joffrey or Petyr or Ramsay, and you don’t deserve that.”

“It’s alright, little bird. I know things are hard for you; Gods know I don’t want to be another thing you have to worry over. I never want to cause you grief or anger, I’m afraid I’m just not good at being anything other than a big pain in the arse.”

She looked at him so seriously, “Sandor… you are the one thing that is not a pain in my arse.”

He smiled at her, “Sounds like a good line for your next song.”

Rather than being amused she continued staring at him, “I mean it. You are the thing that makes me happy… so happy it’s frightening.”

His smile dropped as her words so perfectly described the way he felt about her, as well. With no better way to express the sentiment he simply cupped her cheek. She leaned into it and kissed his palm, breathing in and out against his damp skin, “I miss you.”

“I’m right here, girl.”

She opened her eyes to meet his. Without dropping his gaze she removed her robe, then unlaced the top of the dressing gown she was wearing. He fought the urge to look upon her body and instead looked only into her eyes. She stood, removed her smallclothes, and stepped into the tub, holding his hand for support. She sat back against his chest and for some time they just lay there, comfortable in the warmth of the water and each other’s body.

Sandor started to doze off when the little bird spoke, “I do want it, you know.”

“Mmm… what’s that, little bird?”

“Children, a family. But I’m afraid of what could happen, what I could lose… not having a choice makes it easier than having a choice and worrying about choosing wrong.”

“I thought after the battle you felt differently about it. That you didn’t mourn the dead, that you didn’t feel bad for them.”

“I don’t, but I still _miss_ them in this world. I had been thinking I’d see them soon, that once I took care of the Dragon Queen I could… or that I would…”

Sandor didn’t like what she was implying, “Sansa…”

“No, it’s alright. I don’t feel that way now. I have you, Jon, Jaime, Brienne… all my people. Now I hope that I won’t die after killing the Dragon Queen, assuming I’m successful, that is. But if I don’t die, if I live a long life, then it could be many decades before I’m with him again, before I’m with all of them. It’s such a strange feeling… to be stuck between two worlds, neither one of them has everything I want.”

“I know girl, and if there’s anyone who deserves to have everything she wants, it’s you.”

“ _And_ you.”

“Hah… how many times do I need to remind you? I’m not some honorable knight.”

Her voice was but a whisper as she responded, “You are to me.”

Sandor felt that unfamiliar feeling of pride in his chest, but would not entertain it, “The water is cooling, shall we get out?”

Sansa nodded against his chest, but it was another minute before she rose.

After dressing they had a servant bring up a meal – neither seemed to be in the mood for company other than one another. After eating, Sandor sat in his chair and ran a whetstone over his sword. Sansa sat near the hearth, looking contemplative.

“I love that sound.”

“Hmm?”

“The sound of stone on steel. It reminds me of my father. We often spent nights together in the family solar. My mother and I would be knitting or sewing, my father sharpening his sword. Bran, Rickon, and Arya would be playing on the rug. My mother would have Robb read aloud, and he always grumbled about it at first, but once he started, he became engrossed in the stories just as we all did. Often, they were histories, but sometimes they were tales of mythical beasts. It’s funny, I enjoyed the tales best at the time, but I still remember all the histories, too. Sometimes my father and mother would tell us stories instead. Stories about their childhoods, or stories passed down in the Stark and Tully families for generations…”

She continued, “Isn’t life odd? The moments we hold dear are the simplest ones. Sometimes I’d look down and realized I’d stopped sewing, and stopped listening to Robb’s voice – all I was hearing was the sound of my father’s stone on his sword, other times I’d only hear the sound of the younger children’s giggles, or of their wooden toys dragging across the rug…”

“I can remember the smells, too. My father’s earthy scent, air and leather. The smell of the candles. The smell of the apple wood burning in the hearth. The smell of my mother’s hair, or the tea she drank on those nights. I can remember the smell of Rickon’s head; he would tire before Bran and Arya and come sit on my lap. Robb joked that he thought I was mother since I looked so much like her…”

“I can remember _every_ sound, _every_ smell, but if you asked me to describe the _last night_ we were together like that, I’d not be able to. I couldn’t tell you what dress my mother wore, or whether it was Robb reading or one of my parents telling a story. I couldn’t tell you whether the children were playing with their wooden soldiers, wooden horses, or something else. I’ve often thought about whether it’s better that way… Sometimes I wish there was a way to know when a special moment would be the last of its kind, so you could savor every second of it, commit every detail to memory. But it wouldn’t work that way, would it? If I’d known it was to be our last night all together like that, I’d have been so sad, I’d not have been able to enjoy the moment...”

She was silent for some minutes, and Sandor didn’t want to speak, feeling he would somehow interrupt her memories.

“I suppose you don’t have many memories like that, do you Sandor?”

“No, not many. None of my whole family together like that, just a few of my sister and my father.” He was going to leave it at that, but something told him to continue, not for Sansa’s sake but for his sister’s – that he could keep her alive by talking about her now… That she deserved to be someone he spoke of to the woman he loved.

“I’ve already told you that my sister and I would play outside – _the knight and the princess_. But when Gregor was away, we’d also spend time together inside. She would read to me, being a couple years older than I was. I can’t remember her voice, but I know she had dark hair and dark eyes like the rest of us. I know we were of a height even though she was older. I know she tried to protect me from Gregor, even though it should have been me protecting her. She was gentle but strong. She was sweet to me, even motherly I suppose, but when Gregor would get in one of his moods, she would stand up to him. In my memories she was taller than him, but that can’t have been true, it must have just seemed that way because she would speak so boldly, be so firm.”

“She sounds wonderful… She sounds like you.”

Sandor huffed, “Funny, I was just going to say that you remind me of her in that way… though I didn’t realize it until just now.”

Sansa smiled, “I suppose it makes sense. We were both influenced by an older sibling. Robb was that way: he was kind and sweet, but as you saw he could be quite formidable.”

“Like when he had to chase off your admirers?”

Sansa’s smile grew, “You remember that?”

“Aye, Jon and Robb and Theon… if only they knew they were the _Queensguard_ before you even became a Queen.”

“Hah! I’ll have to tell Jon that, he’ll be so _honored!”_

Sansa rose and strolled around the small room, taking in the few possessions Sandor had acquired since moving to Winterfell. She noticed the book on his nightstand.

“ _History and Culture of Dothrak…_ Are you studying up on our enemy?”

“Aye, mainly on their fighting styles and some other details that could be beneficial.”

“What have you learned so far?”

“Not much, I just got the book yesterday and, so far, have just skimmed it. I read a bit about their system for choosing their Khal – their warlord, that is. He is chosen based on his record in battle and overall fighting capability. He can be challenged but it is fairly uncommon, because they are fights to the death – there is no yielding.”

“So when he gets old and can no longer fight as fiercely, is he killed?”

Sandor walked over to where she stood and picked up the book, “No, if he manages to survive into old age, he can choose to retire, though it seems they would prefer to die in battle. The worst dishonor is to not be able to ride. When a Khal cannot ride, he cannot lead, and they cast him aside.”

“Seems somewhat short-sighted. All the knowledge the man has acquired is still of value, even if he cannot ride or swing a sword.”

“Aye, though they don’t seem lacking for knowledge in battle strategy. They live for war. They are the definition of barbarian in that way, though with much more intelligence and organization, not like the mountain clans you’re familiar with.”

Sansa nodded, “I think I’d like to learn more about them.”

Sandor handed her the book, but she pushed it away, “No, let’s read it together.” She climbed into his bed, under the furs and blankets. After a brief hesitation Sandor joined her but while she laid flat, he sat up against the headboard. Sansa snuggled up against his side and he rested his hand on her shoulder while the other held the book.

He read aloud for over an hour. For much of it she was rapt, asking him to explain some of the military and combat terminology she did not understand. Eventually she started nodding off but would snap herself back awake every so often. He had to hold back a chuckle whenever she did that.

Just before she fell asleep for good her sleepy voice muttered something that made a lump rise in his throat, “I want cornbread and a runny egg for breakfast.”

It took him several seconds to respond, and she may have already been asleep when he did, “Sounds good, little bird.”


	77. So this is happiness

**Sandor**

Over the next moon Sansa and Sandor fell into a comfortable rhythm, and Sandor found he was learning more and more about his little bird with each passing day.

Each morning Sandor and Sansa ate breakfast together in either her solar or the large dining hall. Often, Tyrion or Jon would join them. She still didn’t eat much, but it was most definitely progress. Sandor had learned what foods she preferred – eggs over any type of meat, cornbread or scones over black or brown bread, and warm ale or water instead of sweet wine or juice. Unbeknownst to Sansa, Sandor would often speak to the Cook the prior evening and request the Queen’s favored items. The Cook, a rotund lady with white hair, had taken a liking to Sandor, and often would _happen_ to have leftover bacon or chicken legs for the man.

After breakfast Sansa and Tyrion would work in her private solar whenever they weren’t surveying the grounds and the progress of Winterfell’s repairs. During this time, Theon and Beric would guard Sansa and Sandor would take the time to train. At eleven o’clock she held court for three to four hours depending on the number of petitioners. This is when Sandor would nap or see to any personal affairs he had.

For the evening meal Sandor and Jon would escort her and dine with her in the large dining hall. After dinner she would usually spend another two hours working – either writing letters or meeting with her various officers to be updated when necessary. Sandor and Theon stood guard outside her solar during this time. Once her evening work was done Sandor and Sansa would retire to her bedchamber and spend the rest of the night in peaceful companionship. Some nights he read aloud while she sewed. Other nights he sharpened his sword or polished his armor while she wrote and practiced new songs. To Sandor’s own surprise he’d sometimes help her come up with lines when she was stuck searching for a rhyme. Whenever he did, she would shower him with kisses as if he was the greatest songwriter who ever lived. It made him scowl, but he secretly welcomed the affection. No matter how freely she gave herself to him, he’d never pass up any opportunity to take what he could.

Over the course of a sennight they wrote a song together. Sansa had the melody and the beginning of the lyrics, but Sandor contributed some lines, and even improved on some hers.

> _Daylight had spoken  
>  So clear and so plain.  
> I'm the keeper of nothing  
> But an old flame  
> Consuming the shadows  
> Caught in the light,  
> Blinded by hunger  
> And fed to the night._
> 
> _And Darling, you came to me  
>  Like a dream in this endless blight._
> 
> _My heart was reaching  
>  So tangled and twined  
> Like vines in the willows  
> A serpentine killer  
> Bound by its climb.  
> Glory was calling,  
> It wailed and it whined  
> Higher and higher.  
> Leave it all behind._
> 
> _And Darling, you came to me  
>  In the glory I'd longed to find._
> 
> _My search was unending  
>  And my soul was bare.  
> And darling you filled me  
> Like a breath of fresh air.  
> Out on the ocean,  
> The stars had all gone.  
> My heart was broken,  
> Lost and alone._
> 
> _Darling, you came to me  
>  Like a beacon leading me home._

When she finally sang it for him in its finished state, he was awed. “We made that, little bird?” he asked in disbelief.

She nodded.

“Come here, girl.”

She smiled and sat in his lap, wrapping one arm around his neck.

He swallowed a lump in his throat, “Never thought I’d make anything, little bird.”

She laughed, “I’m sure you’ve made things before.”

He thought about it, “No, I don’t believe I have.”

She looked at him curiously, “I’m _sure_ you’re wrong.”

“Not wrong. My hands have only ever taken, only ever killed.”

“Well, you’ve cooked meals, that’s making something.”

“I mean something that lasts, throwing some meat and carrots into water then eating it doesn’t count.”

“You’ve made weapons, haven’t you? Arrows, or a bow?”

“Aye, things made for killing… things that take, not give.”

“On the Quiet Isle you said you did carpentry.”

“I repaired broken things that other people had made. I never built a house, though I suppose I could build a simple one, a cottage. I never built a wagon, or a Sept, or a bridge...”

“Well that makes me sad.”

“Don’t be; I’m not. I’m happy that I finally made something, something that will last. Even if you did most of the work.”

“I did not! We made it together! You wrote my favorite parts, too! _‘Blinded by hunger and fed to the night.’_ – that was you! ‘ _The serpentine killer’ –_ that is my favorite line in the whole song!”

“You mean that, little bird?”

“Of course! In fact, I bet you could write an entire song by yourself.”

“I can’t play any instruments.”

“You don’t need to. The songs I wrote while in King’s Landing and the Vale – I had no instruments there. I made the melodies in my head.”

“I can’t sing though.”

“I bet you can!”

“Hah! You’ll lose that bet, girl.”

“But your voice is so beautiful, so deep and throaty, some of the best minstrels have similar voices.”

“How much wine have you had tonight?”

She laughed and kissed him on the mouth, “Haven’t you learned yet not to argue with me?”

“I have, only I’m none too smart and I don’t remember my lessons.”

“A Septa would crack you on the knuckles for such lack of diligence.”

“Mmm, would she now? And how would this pretty little Septa punish me?”

Sansa tapped a finger against her lips, “It will have to be something you’ll not easily forget… I’m not sure yet, but it will most certainly involve you being on your knees.”

With a rapid motion Sandor pivoted himself off the chair so Sansa was sitting in it, and he was kneeling before her on the ground. He leaned in and kissed her neck – the spot just below her ear, “Like this?”

“Mmm, I’m not sure that will be punishment enough.”

He pulled down the front of her sleeping gown and placed a kiss at the top of each breast, “How about this, then?”

She shook her head, “No, still not a punishment fitting the crime.”

“How about you just stop me when it’s been punishment enough?”

She bit her lip and nodded. Sandor was already hard as a rock as he pulled off her gown and began kissing every inch of skin that was exposed to him from her neck down to her belly. He kissed her thatch of copper curls delicately before pulling her hips forward. Her bottom was hanging off the chair now, but he threw her legs over his shoulders and went to work, lapping, nipping and suckling at her pearl. With both hands on her bottom he lifted her to be at a better angle for his neck. He did not ease into it, he attacked her mercilessly with his lips and tongue, and she was panting within seconds. Only another minute and she came undone, writhing and grinding against his mouth. He lowered her back into the chair, stroking her thighs as he watched her chest heaving.

“Good enough, Septa Stark?”

She giggled and sat forward, “Not even close.”

She sat on the edge of the chair and pulled him to stand before her. Unlacing his breeches she didn’t even bother waiting for him to pull off his tunic before she began teasing his dripping cock with her thumb and then her tongue.

“You’ll have to try harder to punish me,” he moaned, but if he knew what she had in mind, he’d never have challenged her. She licked at his cock for what felt like an eternity. What started as pleasure became a painful torture.

“Please, little bird.”

“Please what?”

“Take me in your mouth, please.”

She obliged him, but only once before continuing her idle licks.

“Fuck, girl, you’ve made your point.”

“I don’t believe I have.”

She took him in her mouth again, but this time continued sucking him. “Gods, thank you,” he moaned.

He felt the pressure building in his balls, “That’s good, little bird… don’t stop…”

But that’s exactly what she did, just a few seconds before he was about to explode into her throat.

“That’s not fair.”

“This is punishment, it’s not supposed to be fair.”

She licked him a few times before taking his length in her mouth again, this time adding her hand at the base of his shaft. He instinctively began thrusting into her, “Gods, yes… yesssss….”

But again she stopped.

“Fuck!” he roared, “Stop toying with me, woman!”

“Does that mean you’ve learned your lesson?”

“Yes, blood Hells, yes. I’ll never argue with you ever again.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

She sucked him again, and when he tried to press her head to him to hold her in place, she dragged her nails hard down the back of his thigh.

“Fuck, Sansa! You drew blood, I know it.”

“Indeed.”

He wanted to be angry. He was unaccustomed to having the tables turned on him. He was always the one in control during their couplings, the one who demanded she peak for him, the one who teased her until she cried out in frustration and begged for his cock. That’s the way he enjoyed it.

But _this_ … despite his frustration he enjoyed this role reversal. The she-wolf and the sickly dog, instead of the hound and his little bird.

Through gritted teeth he managed to say, “My apologies.”

“Now you’re finally showing some manners!” She continued suckling his cock but this time she did not stop. He held the back of her head as he spurted his hot seed into her throat. He put one leg onto the cushion of the chair to get even closer to her. He thrust in time with her motions and roared her name as the height of his peak was upon him. When the final throws were stilled, he dropped heavily to his knees and leaned his head against her chest, spent and breathless. All her teasing and denials had led to one of the most powerful orgasms he had ever had, and now his limbs tingled as he leaned all his weight against her. She held him close, stroking his hair and he would have fallen asleep right there if not for the pressure on his knees. He pulled her up and practically dragged her to the large bed before collapsing onto his stomach. She climbed up to sit against the headboard and patted her lap. Like a dog he crawled to her side and laid his head down on her thighs, one arm wrapped around her.

She began stroking his cheek with her thumb – the burned cheek that faced up. It used to make him feel insecure, and still did at times, but tonight he had no energy to care. Her fingernails grazed his scalp giving him gooseflesh. He felt her combing her fingers through his hair, working free all the tangles. He felt her playing with a section of his hair and drifted to sleep certain that life would never get any better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit:   
> Daylight - Mandolin Orange


	78. A New Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and fun chapter.

**Tyrion**

He knocked on the door of Sansa’s solar for the second time, beginning to wonder if he’d misheard her at supper the prior evening. She had asked him to come to her solar at seven o’clock the next morning – they had much work to do.

Finally heavy footsteps came to the door and Tyrion was greeted by the sleepy and annoyed face of Sandor Clegane, dressed only in breeches which he was still lacing. “Imp,” was his only greeting.

“Hound,” was Tyrion’s only response.

Tyrion had come to expect to see the man in Lady Sansa’s chambers, though usually fully dressed. It seemed there was a silent understanding among Lady Sansa’s closest servants, officers, and friends. The pair did not flaunt their relationship, but nor did they hide it. If anything, Tyrion respected Sansa more for her willingness to break with tradition. She’d been thrice married and seemed to abhor the notion of marrying for a fourth time but was unwilling to deprive herself of her love. The fact that said love was Sandor Clegane was puzzling to Tyrion, but not completely illogical. He was in many ways the opposite of her previous partners. Where they lied and connived, Clegane was honest to a fault. Where they hurt her, Clegane was staunchly protective of her. Moreover, they seemed to complement each other in unexpected ways. She smoothed his edges, and he sharpened hers. They each seemed a little stronger, a little prouder, and a little saner in each other’s company.

With sarcastic formality Sandor said, “Our Queen shall be with you presently,” and was about to walk back through the door to the adjoining bedchamber when Tyrion noticed something that made him burst out laughing.

“What’s so bloody funny?”

“Oh nothing, friend.”

Sandor lifted an eyebrow but seemed too tired to ask any questions. He walked through the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Tyrion sat down and started leafing through the ledgers they’d be working on today. He supposed the financial situation at Winterfell _could_ be worse, though he couldn’t imagine how. What gave him optimism was that the forestry, fishing, and furrier operations to be expanded by Tormund’s people and the Night’s Watch would be generating income very soon. Jon had assigned a group of hunters, builders, and rangers to travel to Castle Black. He remained behind only because of the assassination attempt on his sister but would be departing in a sennight at Sansa’s insistence.

Sansa and Sandor eventually emerged, “Apologies for my tardiness, Tyrion.”

“Not needed, my lady. Depriving you of your beauty sleep should be a crime punishable by death. In fact, as Hand to the Queen, I have the authority to enact such a law, don’t I?”

Sansa patted him on the shoulder and took her seat. Sandor made his exit and Tyrion heard him mumble a greeting to Beric and Theon who had arrived to stand guard.

“Speaking of _beautiful_ things,” Tyrion continued once the door was closed, “was that _your_ doing?”

She clearly tried to hold back her smirk but was unsuccessful.

“Does he know?”

She shook her head.

“My lady, you are evil.”

She nodded before they simultaneously burst out laughing.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Jaime**

After breakfast Jaime proceeded to the training yard as was his custom. The number of Winterfell’s soldiers and guards had been cut almost in half during the recent battle, but the remaining men were quite capable and eager to serve. Sixty of the surviving men of the Night’s Watch would also remain at Winterfell permanently now that there was no need to fight off Wildlings or wights. What Jon needed were the ones who knew hunting, fishing, and building. He of course would take some rangers to protect the operations that would hopefully become quite lucrative soon, but Sansa and Jon had agreed that Winterfell was in greater need of soldiers than Jon would be, in the near term.

As usual, Clegane appeared in the yard shortly after Jaime. The man was diligent about keeping himself in optimal fighting shape, a habit Jaime could respect. Though the two men often goaded each other, the truth was there had always been a mutual respect of the other, if only as fighters. It was quite possible that before Jaime lost his sword hand the pair were the two most formidable swordsmen in all of Westeros. Adding in Brienne, Beric, and Jon Stark, Jaime pondered if Sansa didn’t have the five best warriors in her service. That certainly must mean something, even if she did not have nearly the numbers of Daenerys, Tywin, or Cersei.

When Clegane approached Jaime the knight couldn’t help but smirk, “I never thought you were one to make a fashion statement,” he chuckled.

Sandor looked down at his clothes and lifted his hands in confusion, “What’s with you and your brother today? You’re both giggling like a pair of drunk maids.”

_He doesn’t know… oh this is going to be fun!_

“I suppose we’re just drunk on life! We’re alive, we’re free, and it’s a beautiful northern day… and by beautiful, I mean _almost_ warm enough that my balls won’t fall off if I stand still for more than a minute.”

Sandor eyed him and shook his head but when he went to run his fingers through his hair, the look of shock on his face had Jaime doubled over in laughter.

“What. The. Fuck.” was all the tall man said.

Jaime laughed, “It actually looks good, rather fierce, it’s just not something I’d ever expect to see on you.”

“What the fuck!” he stated again, and Jaime laughed even harder.

Brienne heard the commotion and was walking toward the yard, “What’s so funny?” she shouted as she approached, but as soon as her eyes fell on Sandor she smiled from ear to ear.

“Ah don’t you start wench. Help me get this shite out.” Sandor was trying to pull out the braid out of his hair – the braid Sansa must have put in his hair while he was sleeping, Jaime figured.

“No, leave it! It looks good!” Brienne implored him.

“Aye, that’s why everyone who sees me is laughing.”

“They’re not laughing because it looks bad – they’re laughing because it’s so un- _you_ … but trust me, that’s a good thing.”

“Hah fucking hah. Come on, get this out.” But just as she was about to give in to his request a pair of pretty washerwomen strolled by and eyed Sandor from top to bottom then up again. The look in their eyes was pure admiration – nothing mocking about it – and it stilled Sandor. “Hold on,” he said.

Brienne stepped back and she and Jaime exchanged a glance and then a laugh. Jaime loved hearing her laugh, as uncommon as it was. He stepped in front of Brienne, “I don’t suppose you know how to braid hair, do you?”

Brienne rolled her eyes at him but was still grinning, “I don’t think you could pull off the look.”

“Ouch!” Jaime replied, clutching his chest, “You wound me, _my lady_.”

He knew she hated being called a lady, so he only did it when they were teasing one another, which seemed to be happening more often.

Jaime looked back to Clegane. It truly was a good look for him. Sansa had braided a thin strip of hair from his forehead all the way to the nape of his neck and it created a border between his hair and his scarred flesh. It transformed the thing that normally was the source of the man’s shame into something he looked proud of. It made Jaime think of the dress Sansa had worn at the most recent feast – the one that put her scars on full display. It was at once a proclamation of strength and a silent dare.

Speaking quietly now, Jaime addressed Clegane again, “It actually does look quite good, not that you asked for my opinion.”

Sandor only grunted in response, but Jaime knew it was as close to a ‘thanks’ as he’d get from this man. With a hard smack on his back Jaime entered the yard and shouted toward his men, “Come on Clegane, these ladies aren’t going to train themselves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always wanted to see a version of Sandor that wore his scars like a badge of honor rather than trying to hide them behind his hair. I also like the idea that Sansa is the one that pulls this side out of him - the side that doesn't care so much about his face anymore.


	79. A Plea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives a plea

**Sandor**

It was the second time in a fortnight that Sandor and Jaime were urgently summoned from the training yard by a breathless page, and Sandor knew it was not good news. Just ten days prior the same had happened, and when they’d arrived in Sansa’s private solar, she and Tyrion shared grim news from the Citadel: Daenerys Targaryen had finally attacked Westeros, surprisingly starting in Sunspear – a port city in Dorne. Apparently, the Prince of Dorne had ended his alliance with the Dragon Queen after some disagreement. Rumor was that Daenerys had grown increasingly ruthless and volatile before she even left Essos. When Lords or groups of rebels opposed Daenerys’ rule, she would burn the entire city to the ground rather than seeking diplomatic solutions. Prince Doran tried to reason with her, but she was adamant that those who didn’t kneel would burn – and she was not worried about the fact that in her haste she was burning not just those who opposed her, but many innocents.

According to the Citadel’s letter she was working her way east to west across Dorne. Her Dothraki warriors accompanied her across the land while her Unsullied army sailed along the coast. Between the two armies and her dragons she was a triple threat – launching attacks by sky, sea, and ground. Each city was given one opportunity to kneel before it was decimated.

The news made Sansa understandably anxious, and as Sandor and Jaime walked hurriedly toward her solar, he worried about what state he would find her in now.

When they entered, Brienne, Beric, Theon, Thoros, Melisandre, and Tyrion were already present and gathered around Sansa’s table. Sansa herself stood at the window, seemingly deep in thought and ignoring the agitated conversation taking place around her.

Tyrion handed a parchment to Jaime who held it where both he and Sandor could read it.

> _Queen Sansa,_
> 
> _By now, undoubtedly you have heard of Daenerys Targaryen’s merciless attack on Dorne, but in case the extent of the atrocities has been under-stated to you, let me describe the state of affairs in the far south:_
> 
> _Daenerys’ behavior makes the Mad King look a Septon by contrast. She is burning entire cities, towns, and villages wholesale with no apparent concern for the impact it will have on the very lands and people she wishes to rule. The armies of Dorne initially put up an admirable fight, but as the tales of horror spread more and more lords are choosing to bend the knee rather than see their lands and people burned. Unfortunately they learned this lesson too late: everything east of Sandstone is rubble and ash._
> 
> _It would appear the self-proclaimed Queen of Dragons is confident in her ability to see all of Westeros either burned or kneeling, and I dare say she has no cause for doubt. In her arrogance, though, she is making no attempt to keep her planned route a secret: once she reaches the southwest corner of Westeros she will begin moving north, taking the coastal cities by sea and the inland cities by ground and sky. I fear a fortnight from now, Highgarden will be no more. After that she will continue north to her next major target – Casterly Rock, where I am presently residing to see my people through this threat. This will be the greatest challenge for her thus far, as the Rock is well fortified to withstand both ground and sea attacks, but it is very achievable given her numbers, not to mention her dragons. If not stopped here, she will travel east along the Goldroad to take King’s Landing and the Crownlands._
> 
> _I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that with Dorne, the Reach, the Westerlands, and the Crownlands under her control she will be in the comfortable position to wait until winter is over, at which point she can easily take the Riverlands, the Vale and eventually the North._
> 
> _My past alliance appeals to you have gone unanswered, though I understand you had much of your own issues to deal with. I must implore you again to consider an alliance with the West not out of desire but out of necessity. With my and my allies’ armies, plus your own, we stand a good chance of defeating the Mad Queen. Additionally, I am meeting tomorrow with Euron Greyjoy to discuss an alliance; the man is brash, but he understands the Iron Islands are vulnerable should Casterly Rock fall. In full disclosure, Queen Cersei has decided she cannot lend her forces to me. King’s Landing is exposed by sea and she believes Daenerys has additional ships and armies at Dragonstone ready to launch an attack on King’s Landing should Cersei send her armies west._
> 
> _I realize the threat may seem far from you but choosing to ignore my plea will only delay the inevitable. Whatever animosity you hold for me, I pray you are wise enough to see that Daenerys is the real threat – not just to you and me, but to the entire realm._
> 
> _I implore you to answer my call and travel to Casterly Rock with your armies in haste. I estimate Daenerys will be here in as little as seven weeks. You need only bring your armies, weapons and supplies enough for the duration of your journey. To expedite your departure, rest assured I can and will provide for your men once camped here. Also note you will meet no resistance at The Twins: Lord Frey has been ordered to make the Crossing available to you so you can take the most direct route to the Westerlands._
> 
> _If nothing else, please write to me with your decision so I may prepare accordingly._
> 
> _Forever in your debt,_
> 
> _Tywin Lannister  
> _ _Lord of Casterly Rock  
> _ _Warden of the West_

Jaime paled but said nothing. Tyrion and Theon were debating whether to answer Tywin’s plea. Theon was uncharacteristically passionate, “We can’t take all our armies south, that will leave the North too vulnerable. The ships at Dragonstone can easily sail north and take Winterfell while we’re gone, they won’t need to wait until winter is over.”

Tyrion shook his head, “She will not leave Dragonstone unless it is to attack King’s Landing, or else Cersei can simply snatch the island back from her. It is her ancestral home; it means too much to Daenerys.”

“And you’re willing to bet Winterfell on that?”

“As a matter of fact, I am!”

“What will she care for Dragonstone once she’s got all of the South, West, and North? She can take it back easily.”

“Fine, let’s assume that if we march south there is a _chance_ Daenerys will take the opportunity to sack Winterfell. If we help my father, he will help us take it back. Daenerys can’t be in two places at one time, she may be able to send her armies north, but her dragons will be at Casterly Rock. Her armies won’t have an easy time taking Winterfell during winter – you know this as well as anyone!”

“So you want us to put our trust in Walder Frey, then Tywin Lannister, and possibly my uncle who’s another mad fucker! Those are the men you’d see us ally with?”

“We won’t be allying with the Freys or Euron Greyjoy, and as I’ve said before, my father’s crimes are many, but he is loyal to his allies, and he always pays his debts. If we come to his aid, he will be in our debt. I can assure you, that is a good position to be in.”

Sandor finally spoke, “That’ll be small consolation when we’re being burnt alive at Casterly Rock.”

“Clegane, you know as well as anyone that Casterly Rock is easy to defend. The reason he is calling to us is the sheer inequity of the numbers, and the fact that she has dragons, not to mention a much larger fleet. The North can aid his land defense and Euron Greyjoy his sea defense.”

“Aye, I’m not saying Tywin is wrong to call to us and the squid, I’m just saying there is no guarantee we’ll win. If she burned through half of Dorne in a sennight, nothing is guaranteed.”

Jaime chimed in, “No, there is _one_ thing that is guaranteed: if Daenerys possesses everything south of the Riverlands, we will perish come Spring.”

Sansa finally spoke, “Ser Jaime, remind me how many men your father has at his disposal.”

Jaime exhaled and pursed his lips in thought, “A good 50,000 I’d say with just he and his Western vassals. Last I heard the Riverlands is another 10,000 assuming they join him.”

“And Daenerys had over 100,000 last we knew, plus whoever she has picked up along the way, minus whoever she’s lost. Let’s assume she has anywhere from 90,000 to 120,000 – would you agree that is a safe estimate?”

“I would, my lady.”

“Can your father hold the Rock with 60,000 against 120,000?”

Jaime shook his head, “No… not with the dragons. If her numbers are as low as 90,000, he would have a decent chance given the defenses of the Rock. Like Winterfell, it’s built to withstand a siege.”

“Theon, if Euron lends his forces how many men would it add?”

“30,000 last I knew, and easily one hundred ships, but I don’t see him helping. He despises Tywin Lannister; always thought he saw the Ironborn as nothing more than barbaric raiders and rapers…”

Sandor grumbled, “He’s right about that…”

Theon’s face reddened, but it seemed there was no argument he could make to defend his people’s heritage, so he continued speaking to Sansa, “Euron is probably meeting with the lion just to enjoy his wine and waste his time.”

“But your sister Yara, did she not join with Daenerys? Might Euron be willing to set aside his differences with Tywin Lannister for the chance to eliminate his niece?”

Theon shrugged, “Perhaps, but it’d mean joining the side of his nephew, so who can say?”

Sansa nodded but went back to staring out the window in silence.

Tyrion addressed the silent members of the group, “Lady Melisandre, Thoros, Ser Beric… have you seen any _vision_ s that may be able to help us with this situation?”

Melisandre hesitated before answering, “As I said after the Long Night, I have seen that Queen Sansa will have a role to play in the coming war, but I cannot say whether that will take place at Casterly Rock, at Winterfell, or elsewhere.”

For the next ten minutes Sansa was quiet while Tyrion and Jaime debated Theon and Beric. For his part, Sandor said very little. The idea of the little bird marching to Casterly Rock worried him, but he knew they stood much better odds if they joined with the Great Lion. The words in his letter were true – with all of the South, West, and East kneeling to Daenerys, Winterfell was only safe until the snows melted – maybe not even that long depending on how intact her army and fleet remained.

Voices were rising and the argument was intensifying until Sansa silenced them all with a single, calmly spoken word: “Enough.”

They all turned to face her, though she was still staring out the window, “The North will answer Lord Tywin’s call…”

Everyone remained silent, though Tyrion breathed a sigh of relief.

“Lord Tyrion, would you join me in the Maester’s Turret? We have many letters to send.”


	80. Departure

**Sandor**

_Four months of peace. That was all the Gods have rewarded us with after we saved the realm of men from an eternity of walking around as fucking corpses._

Sandor should have known better than to think it would last. The little bird’s affections made him feel lucky, but now he only felt foolish. On the morrow their armies would depart for Casterly Rock.

The armies of Karhold, the Dreadfort, and Last Hearth would be one day behind them but would be able to catch up on the road, as would the armies from Bear Island and Deepwood Motte – the Mormonts and Glovers. The armies of Houses Tallhart, Dustin, and Hornwood would meet Sansa’s army at Castle Cerwyn tomorrow evening. House Manderly would meet them in a sennight at Moat Cailin. Before entering Frey territory the Reeds would travel from Greywater Watch to meet the host.

Jon and four hundred men from the Night’s Watch and House Flint would arrive at Winterfell in a fortnight – they were too far north to make it to Casterly Rock in time for the battle, and Sansa insisted that a sizeable force remain at Winterfell, along with a Stark.

And so it was – two hours after sunrise, just five days after receiving Tywin Lannister’s letter – that the army of Winterfell departed through the South Gate onto the Kingsroad. Their timely departure was thanks in no small part to Sandor’s ability to scare idleness out of any man.

Despite his fears, Sandor felt good riding to battle, and so did Stranger. Despite making sure to ride the horse every other day, the beast was restless. He was a warhorse, and craved blood just as much as his master. But Stranger was not the only bloodthirsty animal in their party. Sandor brought along six of the hunting hounds with him, the ones that had proven to be safe around people, horses, and livestock. Combined with Sandor and Stranger they made quite a formidable sight. Shortly after Sandor started using the dogs to protect the supply wagons, he had the tanner outfit them with leather vests that covered from halfway up their necks to their last ribs. The armor was relatively light but enough to at least reduce the damage from a sword. Sandor had every intent of using the dogs in battle and made a point every evening of walking the dogs around the entire camp, so they’d get to know the scents of those fighting on their side.

Much to Sandor’s relief, Sansa had a beast of her own. Jon had left Ghost with Sansa when he returned to Castle Black a couple months ago, and the direwolf refused to be left behind when Sansa and her army rode out. He walked on Sansa’s left while Sandor rode on her right. Theon and Brienne rode in front of them, and Beric and Thoros behind them. Jaime, as Master-at-Arms, was leading the procession and thus they didn’t see much of him until they made camp each night.

…

A sennight into their journey the worst part had not been sleeping on the ground, eating stale bread, or not being able to bathe. Much to Sandor’s agitation, every time a new Lord or Commander joined Sansa’s party, he _subtly_ voiced his disapproval of Sansa’s decision to answer Tywin Lannister’s call. Only Tormund and Lady Mormont made no complaints and seemed to actually _welcome_ the opportunity for another battle.

To each voiced criticism Sansa had the same response, “My Lord, I understand your concern. It is your duty to act in the best interest of your people. Should you decide that means not marching south with me, you will face no repercussion. If that is your choice, I bid you a safe and swift return to your castle.”

The first time she said those words Sandor had to bite his tongue, wanting to scream at the ungrateful bloke who had already forgotten how his Queen literally died to save him and all her other people. But apparently Sansa’s approach was the right one: not a single commander chose to turn back, and none uttered his disapproval a second time.

The other unpleasant aspect of their journey was not being able to sleep with the little bird. She insisted it would be improper, and now was not the time to give her people further reason to doubt her. He understood and even agreed, but that did not make sleeping alone any easier, especially knowing that Sansa was just in the next tent.

For six nights in a row Sandor took his pleasure thinking about her sleeping only a few feet away from him. He imagined sneaking into her tent and waking her up by nibbling on her ear. In her sleepiness she’d push him away, but after a few well-placed kisses she would spread her legs and let him take her from behind as they laid on their sides. He would lift her leg and hook it over his hip, giving him better access to her treasure. One arm would keep him propped up while the other would reach around to alternate between pinching her nipples and rubbing her nub. When she climaxed, he would cover her mouth with his hand to silence her, then make her suck clean his finger while he found his own release.

It was this exact image that he was stroking himself to on the seventh night when he heard rustling at the entrance to his tent. Reaching for his sword he sat up, but lowered the weapon just as fast when he saw it was the little bird who had snuck in. She raised a finger to her lips, and he nodded.

Without delay she pulled back the furs to join him, and almost burst out laughing when she found his breeches pulled down and his cock exposed. He could only shrug in response. She lifted the skirt of her sleeping gown and wasted no time in mounting him. They both moaned as his entire length slid into her channel easily.

_Gods, she’s wet._ Apparently, Sandor wasn’t the only one who’d been having late night fantasies. Pulling her down he growled into her ear, “You’re ready for me, girl. Who’ve you been thinking of, hmm?”

Without missing a beat she responded, “A handsome knight with blond hair and blue eyes. I see you were ready, too… who were you thinking of?”

“The same.”

Sansa had to bury her face in his chest to muffle her laughter, but soon enough the games were over, and she set to work grinding and rolling her hips against him as he lightly guided her with both hands squeezing her bottom.

“Gods I’ve missed you,” she whispered in his ear.

“Not as much as I’ve missed you.”

“I doubt that, but I’m in no mood to argue.”

She kissed him deeply and hungrily, and within a few minutes he felt her movements becoming erratic. She broke their kiss only to bury her face into his neck. Her fingers dug into his sides as she came, bucking wildly against him. As she stilled, he took over, thrusting up into her forcefully as he held her hips down. As she started panting again, he knew she had more in her. He held out long enough to make her peak again and followed her over the edge as he grunted his own release through gritted teeth.

She laid on top of him for several minutes as he stroked her back. With all his prior sexual experiences being quick romps with whores or wenches, he’d never known how good it felt to stay sheathed inside a woman after finishing. On more than one occasion they’d stay joined so long that he would feel himself getting hard again, but tonight that would not be the case. After a few minutes she sat up and looked at him with sleepy eyes. Without speaking she gave him a kiss on the lips and disappeared silently the way she’d entered. The next morning, Sandor would have thought the encounter a dream if it weren’t for the way the little bird blushed when they emerged from their tents at the same exact moment.


	81. The Crossing

**Sansa**

If a month ago someone had told Sansa she would be standing less than a half mile from the Crossing at The Twins, she’d have declared them insane; yet that is exactly where she stood on this windy but clear-skied day.

_This is the place where Robb and Mother were murdered, along with Robb’s wife, his unborn child, and so many of his men._

She looked down at Ghost who stood proudly beside her.

_…and your brother, Grey Wind._

With an army 20,000 strong, plus Tywin Lannister’s blessing, she knew the Freys would let her past, but she did not know if she _could_ walk past.

_Can I walk past the men who butchered what was left of my family, who broke the tradition of guest right to do so?..._

_And who did so very likely at the instruction of the very man I’m marching south to join in battle…_

_A battle against a woman who has 100,000 men and two dragons…_

A small chuckle escaped Sansa’s mouth, and Ghost looked up at her, head cocked.

_The last trueborn Stark, and the last direwolf…_

_Or maybe not…_

Sansa addressed the white wolf, “Your sister Nymeria may be out here, somewhere. Not far from here, mayhap…”

Nymeria was Arya’s wolf who she chased off to protect her after the wolf bit Joffrey in defense of Arya and her friend.

_The friend that Sandor then rode down and killed, under King Robert’s orders._

Sansa turned to face southeast, and continued talking to the confused direwolf, “My sister may be out here too, and mayhap not so far.”

Their current location was less than a sennight’s ride from Saltpans, where Arya was last seen alive by Sandor and Brienne before the two of them fought almost to the death – Sandor’s death.

Sansa turned again to look at her two fiercest protectors – the two people who fought for Arya Stark and who now fought for her older sister.

Another chuckle came out quite involuntarily. Ghost whimpered, and those within earshot cast perplexed looks in their Queen’s direction, but Sansa was powerless to stop the surge of amusement that apparently needed to escape her belly. Trying to find someone or something else to look at, her eyes fell on Jaime. His serious demeanor quieted her for a moment until she thought of the irony of that situation.

_Jaime Lannister: the father of the Boy King who killed my father and abused me for over a year. The brother and former lover of the Queen who wants me dead because she thinks I killed that King, her son, in collaboration with her other brother._ Sansa’s eyes fell on Tyrion now… _Her brother that I was forced to marry, and at the time I thought it was a punishment worse than death, but now he serves as my Hand, while Jaime serves as by Master-at-Arms and commands our armies._

This time it was more than a chuckle. Sansa doubled over in laughter, earning her even more looks of confusion and concern.

_They think I’ve gone mad! A third Mad Queen!_

She laughed so hard tears spilled down her cheeks and her belly ached. She was glad her bladder was empty or else she’d no doubt have made water all over her leather breeches.

_My leather breeches. And my leather jerkin, and armored bodice. I’m carrying two daggers, one at my waist and one at my thigh. I have vambraces and knee-high boots acting as greaves. I’m dressed as a bloody warrior. Oh if Arya could see me now!!_

Sansa could not stop her laughter and knew she must stop it, but with every thought another bout of laughter overtook her

_I’ve killed men._

_I killed the Night King._

_I’m the Queen in the North._

If Sansa allowed herself to think on any one fact for too long, she’d no doubt go mad for true. What right did she have to any of the fates that had befallen her? What did she know of battles and war and ruling a kingdom? Just over a year ago she knew nothing other than singing and embroidering. Sansa thought back to where she was exactly a year ago – at Castle Black with Jon, Theon, Brienne, and Jaime planning for the upcoming battle to retake Winterfell. Then another realization struck her.

“Lord Tyrion, what day is today?”

“The 9th of January, my lady.”

_My nameday._

Both Theon and Sandor looked startled at hearing Tyrion’s answer, but she paid them no mind.

_I’m about to enter The Crossing. Today is my nameday and I’m going to spend it with the man who killed my mother and brother._

The momentary pause in Sansa’s hysteria was over. She could no longer tell whether she was laughing or crying, she only knew she could do nothing to stop it. Brienne finally had the courage to speak up, “My lady, are you well?”

“Oh yes, Ser Brienne, I’ve never been better!” Sansa was being sarcastic, but Brienne didn't seem sure as she nodded in response.

Sansa got back on her horse and without further delay trotted in the direction of The Crossing.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Jaime**

He wasn’t certain what to expect at The Twins, other than that they had permission to pass. When Walder Frey himself was among the men who greeted Sansa’s armies at the entrance to the bridge known as The Crossing, Jaime began to sweat. Jaime was about to lead 20,000 Northern soldiers past the man who had callously killed their last King and Lady; the man who had killed some of their friends and family – men who had fought with Robb Stark. If they passed through without incident Jaime would thank every God there was.

In his croaky voice, Walder addressed Sansa who had dismounted and stood between Jaime and Sandor. “Lady Stark, it is an honor to have you pass through my humble keep, and might I say it is a pleasure to meet you, finally. When your mother described your beauty, I had assumed she was exaggerating, but I now see if anything she was being conservative in her description.”

Sansa’s face was blank as she responded, “That is kind of you to say, Lord Frey.”

“Ooh, I see your nickname, on the other hand, is most accurate,” Walder Frey faked a shiver as he addressed the guards at his sides, “Is it just me, lads, or did the _Ice Queen_ bring with her a blast of the northern cold?”

The men laughed, but Sansa looked unbothered, “I’m sure Lord Tywin has informed you that our crossing is to be done as swiftly as possible, Lord Frey.”

“He has, but what kind of host would I be if I did not at least offer a warm meal to you and your Lords?”

“Your offer is appreciated, but I’m afraid time is of the essence.”

“Come now. Spend an hour with an old man. I don’t have many opportunities to sit and dine with a woman so lovely as yourself!”

“I must, again, politely decline, Lord Frey, but you have my thanks.”

“Then I insist! You wouldn’t dishonor me by refusing, would you _Lady Stark?”_

Jaime noticed Sandor’s hand inch toward his sword pommel, but it was Sansa who broke her courtesy, even as she retained her calm tone, “Lord Frey, I would not eat anything you offered if I was starving and had already eaten all my fingers and toes.”

The smirk on Frey’s face dropped away, “How dare you! We let you cross through our lands, through our castle, and you speak to me this way?!”

Sansa took a step forward, “ _You_ aren’t letting us do anything. _I_ am letting you live instead of seeing you meet the same end as your Bolton friends.”

Frey’s confidence wavered just a moment, but it was enough for Jaime to notice. “Lord Frey,” he spoke, “my father has ordered you to let us pass, not to host us. My queen has politely declined your invitation. Now, unless you plan to fight the West and the North, I suggest you let us pass unmolested.”

Frey stepped aside, but insisted on having the last word, “Very well, Kingslayer, but if you truly wish to serve _your_ _Queen,_ you’d advise her to learn when to keep her mouth shut. That Stark arrogance is what got her brother killed, or has she already forgotten?”

The corner of Sansa’s mouth curled up just slightly, “No, Lord Frey, I haven’t forgotten.”

The look on Frey’s face was priceless. As they rode through his lands, Jaime thought Sansa might just replace his own father as the reigning champion of subtle yet bone-chilling threats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't think Sansa forgot about old Walder Frey.
> 
> She's just been preoccupied - and will remain so for awhile.


	82. The Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The northern army arrives at its destination

**Sandor**

The armies camped outside Casterly Rock stretched as far as the eye could see, but Sandor saw only one – the waving banner of House Arryn. The Knights of the Vale were here, and that meant _he_ was here…

_Littlefinger, that fucking cunt._

He looked to Sansa and she looked back but showed no emotion.

As they approached the main gate, the rest of the banners they passed Sandor recognized as vassals of House Lannister with only one other exception: the Trout sigil of House Tully. Sansa’s uncle Edmure, coward that he was, had pledged fealty to Tywin Lannister in exchange for his release from the Frey’s prison. It would seem Sansa was in for a few unpleasant reunions. Sandor wondered if the alliance with Littlefinger was already established when Tywin sent Sansa his call for support, and if the man had purposely omitted that fact in his correspondence.

After passing through the gate, Sansa and all her Lords, Officers, and Commanders were led directly to a large hall. Sandor accompanied her as her guard.

At a large rectangular table sat Tywin Lannister with over a dozen of his Vassal Lords and Commanders. Not surprisingly, Edmure Tully and Petyr Baelish were among them. The former did not meet Sansa’s eyes as she entered; the latter was all too eager to look upon her. Sandor’s hand clenched around his sword pommel.

_Would it be so bad to cut down Littlefucker right where he sits? Sure, they’ll execute me, but Sansa will be unharmed, and that raping whoremonger will be in the cold ground where he belongs…_

Sansa turned to look at Sandor for the briefest of moments, but it was enough to issue a silent command, and as usual Sandor would not disobey his Queen – his Lady – his love.

_But someday, Littlefucker, I’ll drive my sword straight through you. Gods willing, it will be sooner rather than later…_

Every man at the table rose, but only Tywin Lannister approached.

“That the Great Lion?” Tormund whispered to Sandor.

Sandor only nodded one time.

“Doesn’t look so _great.”_

Indeed, Tywin had aged since Sandor last saw him, though he still appeared fit for his age. He stood straight and tall and wore his stern look as always. Sandor could understand why Tormund wouldn’t think much of him. Though Tywin Lannister was tall, it wasn’t his physicality that intimidated those who stood in the presence of the Great Lion – it was the quiet confidence he exuded. He didn’t threaten with words, he let his history of decimating his enemies speak for itself. Few dared to cross Tywin Lannister, and fewer still who lived to tell of it.

\-----------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

If not for her mane of red hair, Tywin might not have recognized the young woman who entered the hall as Sansa Stark. He’d paid the girl little mind during their overlapping time in King’s Landing, but he knew the girl to be pretty, delicate, and mild-mannered – always courteous, always flashing a smile, even though Tywin knew it to be fake just as he knew the girl was the subject of his grandson’s sick torments – behavior Tywin had tried, ineffectively, to stamp out.

The woman who entered now was with a slew of Lords, Commanders, and guards who looked as fierce as they did unconventional. Tywin immediately recognized his own sons – the mop-haired dwarf missing half his nose, and the tall Knight missing half his hands. He also noticed Sandor Clegane, who somehow managed to look even more fearsome than he had in King’s Landing. Perhaps it was because the man’s scars were fully exposed and even accentuated by a Dothraki-like braid. The man was eying Lord Baelish. _Interesting._

There was also the blond warrior woman – _Brienne of Tarth_ – who Tywin secretly believed was the reason his eldest son now served the Stark girl. She was formidable looking as always, with a deep, curved scar on her right cheek. Tywin recognized only two of the Lords – Howland Reed, of the Crannogmen and Galbart Glover of Deepwood Motte. He assumed the dark-haired woman carrying both axe and sword was Alysane Mormont. The red-haired beast of a man dressed in furs must be the Wildling Lord, Tormund Giantsbane. The others he did not know by name but recognized by sigil: the starburst of House Karstark, the merman of House Manderly, the sentinel trees of House Tallhart, the battle axe of House Cerwyn, the crossed axes of House Dustin, the moose of House Hornwood, and the giant of House Umber. The men wearing those sigils all looked to be military commanders, not Lords. There was only one Lord and sigil that Tywin did not recognize: a handsome young man bearing a sigil of three towers connected by a circle. Tywin assumed he must be the newly named Lord of Moat Cailin – a bastard who’d been legitimized as a Cassel, if Tywin’s intelligence was to be trusted.

_So she has **all** the major Northern Houses behind her. Good._

Sansa’s own appearance contributed to Tywin’s surprise. She wore black leather breeches and a long-sleeved black tunic. She had brown leather vambraces and boots along with a brown leather bodice. A hooded black cloak was tied at her shoulders. Tywin suspected her choice to wear dark colors was to make herself look less conspicuous, but it was a miserable failure. Her porcelain skin and auburn hair contrasted against the black in a striking way. She was every bit the warrior queen that was described in the rumors Tywin had heard, though he still had expected a lady in a light gray dress to arrive.

Tywin’s sharp mind took all this in in the time it took to rise and walk the roughly thirty paces to where Sansa and her party stood at the entrance of the hall. He saw the Wildling Lord mumble something to Clegane but neither heard nor cared what was said.

Once he reached Sansa, he bowed his head slightly as he took her hand to kiss it, “Your grace.”

She arched an eyebrow at his choice of address, but otherwise was stone-faced, “Lord Lannister.”

“Thank you for answering my call. I am glad to count The North among my allies.”

Sansa’s eyes briefly darted to the table, “The North fights on your side against a common enemy; whether or not we are allies after Daenerys Targaryen is dealt with remains to be seen. That shouldn’t trouble you, though – it would seem you have no shortage of _allies_ … Perhaps your situation was less dire than stated in your plea.”

Tywin felt himself heating. Few people ever spoke this way to him, and no one who still lived.

“Your grace, my letters were sent to you, Lord Baelish, Lord Greyjoy, and Lord Tyrell simultaneously. As you can see, only Lord Baelish and you answered. Willas Tyrell refused to abandon his home. Euron Greyjoy met with me but decided against lending his ships and men. I can assure you, the threat we face even with your aid is most dire. The threat is unprecedented.”

“No, Lord Lannister, the threat The _North_ faced was unprecedented. This threat is dire indeed, but men have defeated dragons before and will do so again.”

“Your confidence borders on arrogance, your grace. This is most unexpected from Ned Stark’s daughter.”

“And you seem fearful, my lord. This is most unexpected from the Great Lion.”

“Do not confuse caution with fear.”

“And do not confuse assuredness with arrogance.”

“Dare I ask what makes you so _assured_ then, your grace?”

“You have not met Daenerys Targaryen. I have. She is reckless, _she_ is arrogant. Your letter stated as much. We know exactly _how_ she will attack, and moreover, I know exactly where she will be during the attack.”

“So do I: atop her largest dragon,” Tywin was growing frustrated by the exchange but attempted to keep his composure just as the Stark girl was doing, quite admirably he must admit.

“More precisely than that.”

“And where might that be?”

“Wherever _I_ am.”

Tywin knew surprise was written on his face. For the first time he let his eyes meet those of his son Jaime. Jaime nodded almost imperceptibly, and Tywin knew it was confirmation of the girl’s statement.

Remembering himself, Tywin continued, “Then it appears I owe you even more thanks, if you’ve traveled all this way to act as dragon bait.

“I’d prefer to think of myself as Dragon _Queen_ bait, but you are not wrong, my lord.”

Tywin eyed her. For his entire life he’d had an uncanny ability to spot a man’s weaknesses and strengths – if he had any – within minutes of meeting him. But this girl was unreadable. He guessed that confidence may be both her strength and weakness, but if that was the case, they negated one another.

_Pride?_ But something about her tone told him she wasn’t prideful.

_Insecurity, then?_ But insecurity is only a weakness if it inhibits one’s ability to act. Clearly that wasn’t the case for the girl who jumped into a yard full of wights to kill the Night King…

Tywin became aware that he was staring. He’d have to analyze the girl at a later time. He moved on to practical matters, “Your grace, would you and your companions care to rest and refresh yourselves and join us later?”

“Thank you, but time is of the essence. Let us begin.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

It was about midday when they entered the hall and they were still discussing battle plans as the sun was setting over the ocean. The view was breathtaking. It was strange for Tyrion to be back here, at the home he’d left so many years ago, with the father he never loved, the father who may still believe Tyrion killed his grandson and king. Tyrion knew his father wouldn’t be foolish enough to act against either himself or Sansa before the battle, but that didn’t stop him from frequently looking over his shoulder, half expecting red-cloaked guards to haul him to the underground cells of the Rock. Clegane seemed to share his concern, as his eyes darted around frequently – that is, when they weren’t boring holes into Petyr Baelish’s skull. Baelish did not seem to notice, as he himself was busy staring at Sansa.

His brother Jaime was in his element, thriving as always under the pressure of imminent attack that made most men lose their senses.

Tywin, Jaime, one of the Knights of the Vale, and a Lannister commander were the main contributors to the discussion. Clegane chimed in a few times on more tactical matters.

It felt like history repeating itself when the subject of Sansa’s location during the battle came up. Sansa had her own idea on the topic. She wanted to be at the highest point on the Rock, which happened to be the twin towers connected by a stone bridge, so that Daenerys’ attack would be away from the Lannister and Stark forces on the ground.

“And if you’re wrong? If the Targaryen girl does not single you out for attack?” Tywin asked, rather caustically.

Sansa shrugged, “Then I’m wrong. It has no bearing on the rest of your plans. You are already preparing to fight two dragons. If I keep one of them occupied, it will be a pleasant surprise for you.”

“But your intent is to do more than keep one occupied, it is to _kill_ it, is it not?”

“My intent is to kill the rider.”

“And then what?”

Tyrion finally could contribute, “There actually is precedent for this – when a dragonrider is killed, his dragon becomes distressed, erratic. It is said that when Jacaerys Velaryon was struck dead by a Myrish crossbow, his dragon Vermax fell into the sea and drowned. At minimum, killing the dragonrider should make the dragon less effective in its attack, it may become reckless and expose itself.”

_Finally all the dragon lore I’ve read can be put to practical use!_

Tywin nodded curtly at his son, “Dare I ask how you plan to kill the Dragon Queen?”

Sansa shrugged, “Something will come to me.”

Jaime and Tormund exchanged poorly contained smirks. Tywin was less amused, “How reassuring.”

Sansa obliged him, “I’ll take two archers with me. Theon and Val, if they agree.”

Tormund laughed, “If you _don’t_ bring Val you might find an arrow in _your_ back.”

Clegane looked troubled by the entire topic of discussion, but this time managed to bite his tongue.

…

The sky was dark when Tywin called the meeting to a close. Servants led Sansa’s party to their guest chambers where they’d have an hour to freshen up before a private feast would be held for all the Lords, Ladies, and Commanders present.

Upon arriving in the dining hall, Tyrion was surprised to find that Sansa alone sat at the high table with his father. Apparently, she was his sole guest of honor tonight. Tyrion imagined between those two people the conversation would be rather scant. He caught Sansa’s eye and cast her a sympathetic look before taking the seat next to his brother at one of the lower tables. He was surprised that Clegane did not stand behind her, but as it was a private meal it seemed logical that Sansa would insist his protection was unnecessary.

Unlike most feasts, the tables were separated not by level of nobility but by geography. It was clear the Northern Lords would rather sit with the Northern commanders and guards rather than with the Southern Lords. The Southern Lords seemed to agree. Tyrion took a chance to look at the two sides of the room. On the Southern side, the lords and commanders were dressed in fine clothing and shiny gold or steel armor. On the Northern side they wore drabber colors – blacks, grays, and browns – and mostly leather armor. The Norther side joked and laughed while the Southern side was much more muted.

Tyrion laughed upon realizing that only a few years ago he would have looked down at the Northerners with their crude humor, unkempt beards, and too-loud voices. But now he was one of them, and he knew there was more honor in each of these men and women then among all the Southern lords combined.

Looking to his brother it was apparent Jaime was similarly reflective, and the two brothers exchanged a knowing smile with one another before joining the conversation around them.

Halfway through the meal Tyrion was in for a delightful surprise when a familiar face strutted into the hall. “Ser Bronn of the Blackwater! How good of you to join us,” Tyrion exclaimed.

“Lord Tyrion of… what are you now, anyway? Ah, I’ll just call you Tyrion.”

“I’d have it no other way.”

Bronn immediately snatched a goblet of wine from a passing servant and raised it to the Northerners before him, “Ser Jaime, Hound… other Northern friends, it’s good to see you. I apologize for my absence from your earlier discussions, I’ve just returned from a very important duty.”

Tyrion leaned in to speak lowly, “This _duty_ wouldn’t by chance have a pair of teats, would it?”

“Hah! No, no… I’m a married man now. This was actually work, special reconnaissance assignment from your father.”

“Mmm, I assume a certain silver-haired woman was the subject of your spying?”

“You assume correct.”

Tyrion’s tone became serious, and both Clegane and Jaime looked toward the pair of men, “How long?”

“A sennight, if that.”

“It seems she is most efficient.”

“Easy when you meet so little resistance. Highgarden put up a fight, but it wasn’t enough. Suffice to say, expect the price of roses to go up drastically in the short term.”

Tyrion shook his head, “I thought the Tyrell boy was smarter than that, he should have brought his armies here.”

“Won’t be the first time an entire people died for their Lord’s pride… he believes either your father or sister killed his entire family at the Sept.”

“Thankfully, my Queen is not so prideful or stupid.”

Bronn’s eyes finally fell on Sansa, “Whoa… and I must say, much nicer to look at than the Tyrell lad was.”

“Careful how loudly you say that.”

“Why is that?”

Tyrion wouldn’t mention Clegane explicitly, “Let’s just say these Northerners are very protective of their young Queen.”

“So what happened, anyway – they hold a dagger to your neck and make you agree to an annulment?”

Tyrion sometimes forgot that he was briefly married to Sansa. “No, that wasn’t necessary. Our marriage was never valid.”

It took Bronn a moment to realize Tyrion’s implication, and when he did, he spoke a bit too loudly, “You’re telling me you didn’t consummate _that?”_ Bronn earned glares from half the table.

“I told you to keep your voice down… you’ll get both of us killed at the rate you’re going.”

Bronn lowered his voice, “Your father gifts you a beautiful bride, who happens to be heir to the largest Kingdom in Westeros, and you don’t bed her?”

Tyrion felt his face flushing, “It wasn’t that simple.”

“Oh I’ve done it enough to know exactly how simple it is… should I draw you instructions?”

Tyrion gritted his teeth, “She was a girl, forced to marry a man whose family killed hers and held her captive… the uncle of the King who abused her, the sister of the woman who berated her. If you must know, I draw the line at rape.”

Bronn shook his head, but Tyrion thought he saw a hint of respect in his eyes.

“So, what else have you been up to?” Bronn asked casually.

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

The girl seemed quite content to eat in complete silence, but Tywin would not pass up this opportunity. There was much benefit to winning the support of the Queen in the North beyond the battle ahead – should they be lucky to survive that long.

Of course, Cersei would have to be dealt with. Tywin was not confident he could convince his daughter to let the North remain independent, but perhaps if Sansa helped eliminate the Dragon Queen – saving both Cersei’s homeland and her capital, there would be room for compromise.

Tywin studied the girl once again. She had changed into a modest dress of dark gray wool and sat with a completely impassive face.

“I must say, your grace, your ascent has been quite rapid. You’ve accomplished much in your relatively young life… you have my respect, though I doubt that means much to you.”

“On the contrary, my lord, you are one of the few Southerners whose respect does hold some value to me.”

Tywin was genuinely surprised by her response, “Then I am flattered, your grace.”

“If it please you, I’d prefer to be addressed less formally.”

“As you wish, my lady… I do hope we will have some opportunity to converse in the coming days. Few people’s stories capture my interest; I admit yours is one of them.”

“I fear it’s less interesting than you’ve heard. Distance has a way of distorting and inflating reality. But it seems we are already conversing, so ask what you will, my lord, allow me to satisfy your curiosity.”

_Perhaps this will be easier than expected…_

“You are most generous. I must admit I am curious who helped you get out of King’s Landing after Joffrey’s death.”

For the first time all night, she looked surprised, but regained her composure quickly.

“Ask anything about me, my lord. I’d rather not speak of others, particularly if it might either incriminate them or damage their character in your eyes.”

“Very well.”

Tywin already knew the answer – the slimy Lord Baelish – but he wanted to know what Sansa’s reaction to the question would be. He was pleased by her response – she was not deceitful but did not betray her _accomplice_ , either.

“You killed your husband, Ramsay Bolton.”

“I did.”

“Then fled to the Wall where you managed to rally some of your bannermen plus the Wildling army?”

“I did, though I’d prefer if you refer to the latter as Free Folk.”

_Fucking Wildlings._

“My apologies. Then you personally led the attack on the Boltons to reclaim your castle?”

“I didn’t _lead_ the attack, though I participated.”

_Humble woman, not common for someone so highborn._

“And declared yourself Queen in the North?”

“No. My people made that declaration. I accepted the appointment.”

_A reluctant leader. Good._

“You carry out your own executions?”

“Yes.”

_Just like honorable Ned Stark._

“You killed the Night King.”

“Yes, though I was only in the position to do so thanks to thousands of Northerners and Free Folk, many of whom perished.”

“And you died in the process?”

Her face reddened. She responded with a question of her own, “Is that what you Southerners believe?”

“It is what I _heard_. Most Southerners know few details of that battle, and as you’ve accurately stated, distance distorts and inflates reality. So, is it true?”

“Do I look dead to you, my lord?”

Tywin eyed her, why was _this_ the detail she was unwilling to share? But her failure to deny it proved it was indeed true.

“No, my lady, you look quite alive and well, and despite what you think, that pleases me.”

“I’m sure it pleases you _now_. Will you still be pleased after the upcoming battle, assuming we survive?”

“That, my lady, depends entirely on you. I’ve made it known I’d rather be your friend than your foe.”

She stared at him, and Tywin was not used to the attention. Everyone averted their eyes in his presence – even the most hardened men could not hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.

“You’ve answered my questions, and I thank you. If there is anything you wish to ask me, feel free.”

“I have no questions for you, my lord, as I’d not trust any of your answers.”

“I do not believe I’ve done anything to merit your distrust, my lady.”

“Tonight? No, you haven’t.”

Tywin shook his head at her insolence, “If you’d take some friendly advice, my lady… a grudge is a dangerous thing, it clouds one’s judgment.”

“Forgetting the past is also dangerous, my lord, it dooms us to repeat our mistakes.”

_Wise young woman._

“And dare I ask what past deeds cause you to mistrust me?”

She stared at him.

He nodded, “As I suspected, you hold your grudge against some in my family, and I’ll not blame you for that, but I am not Joffrey any more than Jaime is. I am not Cersei any more than Tyrion is.”

“Joffrey was a dog off his leash, and I fear Cersei is no better.”

“And you think I am the one who holds the leash?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Then you are not nearly as smart as you think you are,” the slight was intentional, once again Tywin was testing her.

“Perhaps I am not, but I will never again be _naïve_.”

_She’s not reactive. She is in control of her emotions and words._

A silence fell between them as they sipped their wine. Lord Baelish seemed to take that as an opportunity to approach the high table. It was a slight breach of etiquette to do so uninvited, but the man lent his highly trained Knights of the Vale, and Tywin was in no position to scold him now.

“I hope I am not intruding, but I could no longer resist the temptation to greet Lady Sansa... I’m sorry, _Queen_ Sansa. It is a pleasure to see you, and may I express my shamefully belated congratulations on your coronation, and the many victories the past year has held for you.”

“Thank you, Lord Baelish.”

_Cold as ice._

Baelish seemed to be expecting the girl to say more, but after a few moments he took his queue, “I will leave you two to your conversation, though I do hope we will have the opportunity to catch up. Your grace. Lord Tywin,” he bowed and returned to his table.

Sansa took a deep sip from her goblet, and Tywin noticed her hand tremble ever so slightly.

“I’d think you’d be pleased to be reacquainted with Lord Baelish. He was a close friend of your mother, was he not? I’d think you’d be rather fond of him.”

“The only people fond of Lord Baelish are those looking for a mid-rate whore,”she took another sip and set the goblet down a bit too heavily.

“Perhaps my memory has failed me, did you not agree that Lord Baelish should remain Lord Protector of the Vale until your cousin comes of age?”

“If you have a point, my lord, make it.”

_She sounds like me._

“None, my lady; just interested in the politics and inter-relationships within the realm.”

…

After most of the guests, including Sansa, had retired, Tywin approached his sons.

“Father,” they spoke in unison.

“Jaime, Tyrion. Might I request your presence in my private solar?”

“It would be our pleasure,” Jaime answered, though he hardly looked pleased.

Once arriving in the solar Tywin poured them each a glass of brandy. The three men sat and sipped their liquor, all seemingly waiting for someone else to speak. Unsurprisingly, Tyrion was the first to do so, “Was there something on your mind, father?”

“There are many things on my mind, Tyrion. Among them – why both of my sons serve the Northern Queen.”

Tyrion snorted, “Last I checked, Cersei wants me dead, and I’m fairly certain you do as well…”

“I did not ask why either of you parted ways with your family, with your King… I asked why you chose to serve Sansa Stark.”

The brothers exchanged curious looks.

Jaime spoke, “When Sansa’s mother Lady Catelyn set me free, I vowed to find and return home her daughters.”

“A vow which has long been fulfilled, for the one daughter at least, yet you remain at her side. And you, Tyrion, you’ve been missing for years, presumed dead for much of them, then reappear in Winterfell and within weeks are named Hand of the Queen… Why not stay in hiding? Did you run out of coin?”

Tyrion shook his head, “No, my exile was quite comfortable.”

“So why not stay in Braavos with your whores?”

Tyrion’s jaw dropped.

Tywin rolled his eyes, “Of course I knew where you were, don’t look so bloody shocked.”

“You knew, and you did not send assassins?”

“What purpose would that serve? It cost me nothing for you to live, I was not funding your lifestyle. Moreover, death is rather final, and one never knows when one’s son might prove himself useful.”

“How very sentimental of you, father.”

Tywin's patience was wearing thin, “Is one of you going to answer my question, or need I bring in the Hound to get a straight answer?”

Jaime still looked confused, “I beg your pardon father, but I’m not sure precisely what you wish to know.”

Tywin huffed his frustration, “Why _her_? What is so special about the Stark girl that both my sons are willing to freeze their cocks off in that northern wasteland rather than enjoy a comfortable life in Braavos or King’s Landing… or _here_ for that matter?”

His sons looked at each other again but neither spoke.

“One of you is fucking her, is that it?” Tywin secretly hoped Jaime had formed some type of romantic attachment with the girl. It would unite the North and the West, and potentially give Jaime a motivation to finally settle down and assume his birthright as heir to Casterly Rock and someday Warden of the West.

Unfortunately, Tywin’s greatest hope was dashed by the laughter of his sons. The idea of either of them bedding the young queen apparently was ridiculous to them. Jaime finally answered, “Have you never known a King or Queen worthy of your loyalty?”

“I’ve been loyal to quite a few, though I’d not say any of them were _worthy_ , in hindsight.”

“Then you know how rare it is, and you have your answer.”

Tywin considered his eldest son’s words, “And what exactly makes her _worthy_ of your loyalty?”

This time Tyrion answered, the words pouring out of his mouth as if they were a speech he’d rehearsed, “Because she is loyal in return. She gives more than she takes. She views her position as an obligation, a duty, not a privilege. She is kind; she cares about her people. She _died_ for her people, and she probably will again someday, I’m sad to say. She is wise beyond her years. She is stronger than any man I’ve ever met, and yet she’d never admit it, even to herself. She spends every day trying to be worthy – though who or what she is trying to be worthy of I truly know not…”

Jaime added, “She has every reason to be bitter, vengeful, and cruel – yet she is none of those things.”

Tywin took a moment to absorb everything his sons had said. He was pleased to have his beliefs confirmed, but it did complicate matters. It would appear this young Queen had no interest in the game of thrones. She barely wanted to rule her _own_ kingdom.

_But that’s exactly why she is the right one…_

Tywin dismissed them but Jaime had more to say, “Father, I know you are scheming something. If your intent is to betray this woman who answered your call…”

“It is not.”

He said the words with such conviction that Jaime looked instantly pacified until another thought seemed to strike him, “And do all of your allies share your sentiment?”

“Speak plainly, son.”

“Fine. Petyr Baelish. You must know he sold Sansa to the Boltons…”

“I am aware.”

“And the Vale has not responded to any call for support in decades.”

“I am also aware.”

“Baelish is as cunning as they come, and he wants something from Sansa, I can smell it.”

“If any harm should come to Sansa Stark, the perpetrator will be dealt with harshly, as I’d deal with anyone who acts against one of my allies.”

“Like you _dealt_ with Sansa after she killed Roose Bolton?”

Tywin rose, “Roose Bolton was _supposed_ to be Warden of the North – a duty he neglected. His own _people_ betrayed him, and with good reason. Has anyone voiced discontent over the Starks taking back Winterfell?”

Jaime shook his head.

“Though I imagine 20,000 Northern soldiers will be rather vocal should harm befall their Queen while she is a guest in my castle… would you agree?”

Jaime cleared his throat, “Yes.”

“Then what happened to Roose Bolton has no bearing on this conversation. Now I have work to do, I bid you good night,” with a flick of his wrist Tywin dismissed his sons again.


	83. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all the Westerners share Tywin's opinion of the Queen in the North.

**Sandor**

Sandor and Beric spent the entire morning surveying the Rock’s defenses. Sandor was glad to see that they had hundreds of large catapults and ballistae which would be needed to stand a chance at killing the dragons. The ground defense of the Rock was second-to-none, but the sea defense was a concern. Daenerys was believed to have over a hundred ships while Tywin Lannister had about seventy – and her dragons would make short work of his fleet if not taken down swiftly. Luckily all of the Lannister ships also had ballistae at both bow and stern – the dragons would be taking a risk every time they approached a ship, though Sandor had seen firsthand how agile the creatures were and had no doubt they would be difficult targets.

Even more concerning were the mumblings Sandor and Beric heard when walking through the army camps. Apparently not everyone agreed with Tywin Lannister’s decision to invite the _Ice Queen_ to join their fight. By now, it was fairly well known that Daenerys Targaryen helped during the Battle for Life, and many suspected she and Sansa were allies – that once the battle started Sansa’s men would turn on the Lannisters. He couldn’t truly fault them for drawing this conclusion – after all it was equally well known that Sansa held no love for Tywin Lannister.

Sandor voiced his concern to Theon and Brienne and asked them to spread the word quietly to the other northern guards to remain vigilant even while in the apparent safety of the keep.

At midday all the lords and commanders gathered again for more planning. The focus today was on defending the inlet from the Unsullied who would attack by sea. Lord Kayce repeatedly stressed what he had heard from the far South in regard to the efficacy of Daenerys’ attacks – she would use her dragons to burn most of her enemies’ fleet, then her soldiers would make landfall with little resistance, squeezing each city or castle between her two armies.

Sansa was quiet and seemingly deep in thought throughout the debate that followed. At some point Sandor noticed her mouthing something to Tyrion. Whatever she said made him wince, then nod.

Sansa raised her voice to speak over the bickering men, “My Lords, might I offer a suggestion?”

The men looked at each other, no doubt wondering what the Lady of landlocked Winterfell would know about maritime warfare, but Tywin bid her continue.

“I would recommend we fight fire with fire. Put simply, we lure her ships into the inlet, then set them ablaze. I’d ordinarily be opposed to such an inhumane way to end a life, but since Daenerys herself has no qualms in burning innocents alive, I don’t believe it would not be unjust of us to treat her soldiers with the same regard.”

Bronn nodded, “Like the Battle of Blackwater, but your grace is forgetting we used Wildfire. Burning a fleet the size of hers with traditional incendiary methods is less efficient.”

Sansa stared at Tyrion who rubbed his eyes and grimaced, “About that…”

…

“You hid Wildfire beneath Casterly Rock without my knowledge?!”

Tywin had dismissed everyone but Tyrion, Jaime, and Sansa. Sandor made it clear that where Sansa stayed, he stayed, and Tywin seemed to care very little at that moment.

“In my defense, I did it without _anyone’s_ knowledge,” Tyrion answered.

“Are you _insane_?!”

“It seemed safer here than in the hands of either Joffrey or Cersei, I’d think you’d agree.”

“Anyone could have come upon it! The stuff is as combustible as it gets, it could have been set ablaze by the slightest catalyst!”

“But it wasn’t. And if you want to be rid of it for good, then agree to Lady Sansa’s plan.”

“And burn my own fleet along with Daenerys’?!”

“ _Part_ of your fleet, yes. The rest sail out to sea or north to the Crag.”

“Why did you not tell me that you transported a hundred barrels of Wildfire to _my_ castle?”

“First of all, it is not in or even beneath your castle. It’s _nearby_ , somewhere I was sure it would be unmolested. Second of all, I trusted you only slightly more than I trusted Joffrey and Cersei at the time.”

“You cretin!”

“Well _that’s_ a new one!”

Sandor had never seen Tywin Lannister this visibly angry. The man was fuming. Even Sansa looked intimidated.

Taking advantage of the momentary silence Jaime spoke, “Father, I realize Tyrion’s actions may have been unwise and risky, but we can argue over past choices when Daenerys Targaryen isn’t bearing down on us with her 100,000 highly trained warriors and two full grown dragons.”

To his credit, Tywin composed himself quickly enough, “Fine. Call the others back in.”

Tywin informed the returning men and women that they would move forward with Sansa’s plan. Unfortunately the matter was not settled. Lord Banefort spoke up, directing an accusation at Sansa, “Is no one else going to say what I know many of us are thinking?” The man looked around, but everyone avoided his eyes.

He snorted, “Fine… then I’ll be the one to say it… Does it not seem suspicious that this _Northern Queen_ has knowledge of Wildfire that is on Lannister land? The same queen who a few months ago accepted the Targaryen girl’s help in defeating the army of the dead? The queen whose family was at war with the Crown and House Lannister for years?”

Tywin bristled, “What _exactly_ are you implying, Lord Banefort?”

“I’m not _implying_ anything, Lord Lannister. I’m stating outright that this woman,” he pointed a finger at Sansa, “is working with the enemy… why else would she agree to come to our aid?”

Sandor gripped his sword pommel. Jaime looked to be resisting the urge to do the same. Sansa as usual, remained still.

Tywin’s face reddened but he spoke calmly, “You believe she is here to betray us? Please, enlighten us on why you think that is so.”

“Lord Lannister, with all due respect, Sansa Stark has nothing but hatred for the Crown and for your family. You ask me _why_ I think she’d betray us, betray you… I dare say why wouldn’t she? The history of animosity between her family and yours is well known and needs not be recounted now. She shows up here with the Hound, who abandoned your grandson during the Battle of the Blackwater, and with the son who you yourself wanted dead. The two of them have intimate knowledge of this stash of wildfire _conveniently_ hidden here years ago, according to them. They mean to use it to burn our ships – do you not see it? They have just convinced you to place half our fleet in the inlet with a hundred barrels of wildfire. If you do that, what’s to stop one of the Northern archers from shooting a flaming arrow at them before the Targaryen ships sail into the trap?”

To Sandor’s fear, some of the other lords started nodding their agreement.

“It’s not only that, my lord. Everyone sees the parallels between the two Queens, it’s uncanny how well their fates align. Both are the last surviving women of their lines – lines centuries old. Both lived in hiding for a time, both forced into marriage against their will, then both rallying armies to reclaim their birthrights. Daenerys Targaryen – the first Westeros-born woman to get the Dothraki to fight for her. Sansa Stark – the first woman born south of the Wall to get the Wildlings to fight for her. Both women have _pets_ that are mythical beasts long thought extinct – the dragon and the direwolf. Daenerys is the Unburnt, Sansa is the Undying...

"And where they aren’t exactly similar, they are the inverse of the other: The Queen of Fire and The Queen of Ice. Daenerys’ hair as white as the snows of the Stark homeland, and Sansa’s hair as red as dragon fire… but I know you, my lord, and you do not put faith in such things. So let me use the Stark girl’s own words as proof: after the battle against the dead she gave a rather moving speech – so moving that its words echoed this far south. She spoke of _breaking the wheel_. She spoke of the North’s continued independence from the rest of the realm, she insulted Southerners. She said, _“The North Remembers”!_ What more proof do you need?”

The man was breathless after delivering his sermon. Tywin looked between Sansa and the Lord, seemingly considering his words.

Sansa finally broke her silence, “That is quite a compelling argument, my lord. Perhaps I _should_ betray you…” Tyrion chuckled, though no one else seemed to recognize her words as the jape they were.

“Trust me or don’t, Lord Lannister, but make your decision quickly, if my people are to return to the North I’d rather do so with haste before there is an army of Dothraki horse warriors on our heels.”

“You’re not going to try to defend yourself, Lady Stark?” Tywin arched an eyebrow.

“I doubt any of my words would be taken as truth by anyone in this room, other than the ones who need no convincing in the first place.”

“Then humor me. Are the rumors of your speech accurate?”

“Yes, albeit taken out of context”

Many men grumbled.

“Do you hold the Crown and House Lannister responsible for the deaths of your family?”

“For my father, mother, and elder brother, and for the disappearance of my sister, yes.”

“Do you have an agreement in place with Daenerys Targaryen?”

“No.”

“ _Did_ you?”

“No, though we did try, before the Long Night, but it was unsuccessful.”

“Why?”

“I did not agree to some of her terms, and she was unwilling to compromise.”

“What were the terms?”

“That I kneel to her. That I marry a man of her choosing. That I fight with her take the Iron Throne.”

“What compromise did you offer?”

Sansa sighed, “I offered to permit Northmen to fight for her of their own volition, even though the North as a whole would remain neutral in the war. I was willing to kneel if a majority of my bannermen agreed.”

Tywin studied her a moment before continuing, “So if you had no agreement in place, why did she come to your aid during the battle?”

“She didn’t come to aid us; she came because my brother Jon sent her a raven notifying her that the Night King possessed her dragon, Viserion. That is how he felled the Wall, as I’m sure you know. Daenerys may claim she came to help the North, but in truth she came out of pride. The idea of the Night King riding her dragon, even the dead version of it, was unbearable to her.”

“And after the battle? What was your relationship then?”

Tyrion interrupted before Sansa could speak, “The answer to that question proves there is no love or even cooperation between the two Queens in question, so I suggest you take me aside, and Clegane, and Ser Jaime and ask us each separately. You will get the same answer from all of us because it is the truth. Then you may also find Ser Brienne and Theon Greyjoy, who will further corroborate.”

Tywin looked to Jaime and Tyrion, “Leave the hall. Clegane, you stay.” Four guards escorted the Lannister sons out of the dining hall and shut the large wooden doors behind them.

“Speak,” Tywin commanded.

Sandor looked to Sansa, who nodded her permission.

“Lady Stark, when she awoke… she attacked Daenerys, tried to strangle her. When Jaime and Jon held her back, she pleaded for someone to kill Daenerys. That Daenerys was going to burn the entire world, that we had to stop her before she could.”

Tywin nodded at a guard, “Bring in Ser Jaime.”

Jaime entered. Without looking at either Sansa or Sandor he spoke confidently, “Lady Sansa was brought back to life, as I’m sure everyone here knows or suspects. While she was speaking to us of her… _experience_ , Daenerys walked in to inquire after her health. Lady Sansa attacked her. I myself and Jon Sn- Stark, had to restrain Lady Sansa, or else she’d have killed Daenerys.”

Tywin asked a question, “Did Lady Stark give a reason for trying to kill the Dragon Queen?”

“Yes, she said that while she was dead, she’d seen visions of Daenerys burning everything… the entire realm of men. That Lady Sansa was sent back for the purpose of stopping her.”

The lords in the room were speechless as Jaime’s words aligned so well with Sandor’s own account.

Finally Tyrion was brought in and gave the most detailed version of events among the three men, though, mercifully, he omitted the part about Sansa’s son.

Tywin addressed Sansa, “Do you intend to harm the Westerlands or Crownlands at any time, now or in the future, my lady?”

“No, unless the West or Crown intends to harm me or my people.”

The lord who’d voiced his accusations spoke, albeit with far less poise, “None of this explains why you’d help us, Lady Stark. What cause do you have to care about Casterly Rock, or anything south of your borders for that matter, save perhaps the Vale and the Riverlands.”

“I don’t care about what lays south of my border, my lord. Casterly Rock can burn to the ground for all I care. What I care about are the people who are once again caught in the middle as us _nobles_ wage war. People are being burnt alive, my lord, along with their homes, lands and animals. Daenerys Targaryen is not good for the realm, though in truth, my primary motive is self-preservation. The North does not have the numbers to defeat Daenerys once she decides to take our kingdom. I will not see the North burn, and I’d rather not see it kneel to a madwoman. For the same reason I’ll not kneel to Cersei Lannister, though where Cersei is neglectful of her people, she is not burning them alive.”

“So we are the lesser of two evils?” Tywin asked, ignoring the insult to his daughter and queen.

“Yes, my lord. An evil I can live with, so long as it stays out of my lands.”

Tywin took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, “I am convinced of Lady Stark’s intent to help us defeat the Dragon Queen. Anyone who disagrees is welcome to leave, take your chances in your own castle. But if you stay, know that any actions taken, or words spoken, against Lady Stark or the North will be seen as treason in my eyes.”

The lords looked around at each other, and one by one they nodded their agreement.

…

That night when Sandor headed for the room he shared with Beric, he found both beds occupied – one by Beric, and one by Thoros.

“I always thought you were a pair of pillow-biters, and I care not until it interferes with my sleep.”

Thoros laughed, “Go find Ser Jaime.”

Sandor rolled his eyes but was too tired to argue. He walked down the hall to the room he knew to be Ser Jaime’s, the room he’d been sharing with Tyrion (apparently, Tywin refused to let his sons stay in their childhood quarters in the family keep). He found only Jaime inside.

“What the fuck is going on with all the room swapping? I’m too bloody tired for games.”

Jaime smirked, but nodded his head toward the door that adjoined to the next room, “I was doing you a favor friend, but if you’d prefer to bunk with Beric, so be it.”

On the other side of the wall he knew Sansa shared a room with Brienne. The idea of have convenient access to his woman made Sandor’s cock twitch.

“Seems like you’re doing _yourself_ a favor, but I won’t split hairs.”

Jaime laughed, “There are two beds here, and I’m a gentleman.”

“No, Brienne is the gentleman.”

Sandor knocked on the door and a sour looking Brienne snatched it open, “You owe me, Clegane. And I’m taking this pillow; you can share with your _lady love._ ”

Sandor gave an exaggerated bow then closed and barred the door between the two rooms.

Sansa was already in bed wearing nothing but a thin ivory shift. Sandor wasted no time in crawling on top of her and burying his face in her neck. He breathed in her scent, “Gods I’ve missed you.”

They had chanced only three encounters on the road, and Sandor felt like he would burst just from kissing her. His excitement was matched by her own, as she unlaced his breeches and guided him to her warm wet center, mumbling against his mouth, “Don’t make me wait another second.”

He drove into her hard as she circled her nub with three flat fingers. He couldn’t watch for fear the sight would push him over the edge. Instead he closed his eyes and forced himself to hold out. Luckily, she came quickly, and it only took him a few more seconds to follow.

He collapsed on top of her, breathing hard. After a minute he rolled off of her and laid on his side, pulling her back against his chest. He kissed her shoulder, but there was something on his mind he needed to voice, “Let me kill him, little bird.”

“Not yet.”

“Someday, though?”

“Yes.”

He breathed a satisfied sigh. “Thank you,” he whispered into her hair. He imagined all the ways he could kill Littlefinger and wondered which would be the most satisfying. Ultimately, he decided it would be strangling the man with his bare hands.

“You served Lord Tywin for many years… does he seem different to you?” Sansa asked.

Sandor thought for a few seconds before answering, “No, same old lion, serious, cold, all business and no pleasure… why do you ask?”

“I don’t know exactly. He seems the same as I remember him, but he is asking me a lot of questions.”

“Questions about Winterfell? About the North?”

“No, and I know not to answer if he does. He asks about _me_ … I feel like he’s trying to take my measure. Like he’s testing me.”

“Mmm… I know what you mean. He’s a smart man. He’s gotten where he is by knowing his enemies and his allies. When you know a person’s motives you know how to predict their actions.”

Sansa laughed, “Funny, Petyr told me something similar once.”

“Aye, they’re both cunning, I’ll not say otherwise.”

“But are they as cunning as they think?”

“Hah, good question. I’d say Lannister is, Littlefucker… I’m not certain, you’d know him better than I do.”

Sansa seemed satisfied with his answer. She began humming idly as she laid in his arms, and it reminded him of something, though he wasn’t sure he was ready to tell her.

She took a deep breath, “I slept terribly without you. I’m afraid I’ve become quite dependent on your warmth and your arms.”

“Sure my cock doesn’t have anything to do with it?” he whispered in her ear.

She giggled into his arm, “That might be a factor.”

She dragged her fingernails against the tender skin on his inner arm, “I mean it, Sandor. It’s pathetic how much I need you, how much I love you. You don’t have to say it back… I don’t need you to, I just, Gods, I just need you to know. In that letter you wrote that I had ruined you, but I think you’ve ruined me, too.”

Her words made his chest ache. He wanted to scream that he felt the same. He wanted to say those three words, but the emotion that would come out with them threatened to swallow him like quicksand.

“I had a lot of sleepless nights, myself. I thought about you and your songs. Thought about that song we wrote together, and I started scribbling some lines down. It started those days it was raining… remember – for three days straight it rained, and everyone was miserable? Anyway, I thought of the words during the day while riding, then wrote them down at night… before I knew it, I had a whole song, though I fear it’s rather primitive compared to your songs.”

She started to roll over, but he stilled her, “No way girl, I’m not singing it while you look at me.”

She nodded and seemed to be waiting with bated breath.

_Fuck, too late to change your mind now._

He sighed, “Remember, you have to lie if you don’t like it… though you’re not a very good liar, so mayhap it’s best if you just say nothing… if you hate my voice just remember how much you like the feel of my tongue on your cunt. If you hate my words just remember how much you like the dirty things I whisper in your ear, alright?”

She nodded again.

_Here goes nothing…_

He sung so quietly it was like a lullaby; he was certain she could only hear because his lips were so close to her ear.

> _Buckets of rain  
>  Buckets of tears  
> Got all these buckets comin' out of my ears  
> Buckets of moonbeams in my hand  
> You got all the love, honey  
> That a man can stand_
> 
> _I've been meek  
>  And hard like an oak  
> I've seen good people disappear like smoke  
> Friends will arrive, friends will disappear  
> But if you need me  
> Little lady I'll be here_
> 
> _I like your smile  
>  And your fingertips  
> Like the way that you move your hips  
> I like the cold way you look at me  
> Everything about you is bringing me misery_
> 
> _Little red mouth  
>  A berry so ripe  
> I ain't a wise man but I know what I like  
> I like the way you love me strong and slow  
> I'm takin' you with me  
> Darlin’ anywhere I go_
> 
> _Life is sad  
>  Life is a joke  
> All ya can do is try not to choke  
> You do what you must do and ya do it well  
> I'll do it for you  
> Little birdy can't you tell?_

Her silence lasted an eternity, and this time it was Sandor who held his breath. When she finally turned to face him her eyes were brimming with tears, and she kissed him hard, wrapping her arms around his neck and draping one of her long legs over his. Her right hand cupped his scarred cheek, and though he had little sensation on that side, the pressure he felt melted his heart.

The kissing seemed to last hours. Both sated from their hurried romp just minutes ago, neither was in any rush. They kissed each other, they touched each other, they explored each other, they looked into each other’s eyes. She kissed his lips as if sampling a fine wine, he stroked her hip as if admiring a fine sculpture. When he grew hard, he let his cock rub against her center but made no move to enter; he simply enjoyed the feeling of her silky skin teasing his. When neither could bear it any longer, she rolled on top of him and sunk onto him so slowly he felt every inch of her tunnel as it enveloped him. She stared into his eyes as she slowly repeated the motion of rising and falling on him. Every downward motion seemed to be a proclamation of love, of mutual possession.

He needed to be closer in this moment. He scooted back so he was propped up against the pillows. He rested one hand on her hip, squeezing the soft flesh there, while the other hand cupped her cheek. She turned into the hand, kissing his palm and each fingertip in turn, before placing both her hands over each of his. When her pleasure began to build, she closed her eyes and her lips parted. _Gods, strike me blind, this is the last thing I ever want to see._

This amount of intimacy still wasn’t enough. Moving his hands to her waist he pulled himself up to her. He sat on crossed legs as she wrapped hers around his back. He held her close, burying his face in her neck as he gathered her soft hair in one large fist. The other hand slid down from her waist to grasp her bottom, pressing her even further down against him as he guided her thrusts. She had one hand braced on his shoulder and the other buried in his hair, and she leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Sandor.”

So focused was he on the places their bodies were touching that he didn’t notice she was peaking until her movements suddenly quickened and she whimpered his name over and over into his ear. That was all it took for him to join her in his own ecstasy. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced, this surge of emotion that racked his body, like sobs without tears. He held her tiny waist tightly, and she cradled his head against her breast. She was everything to him: lover, friend, mother, queen, _god_. She was his strength and his weakness, his joy and his suffering; his reason to live and reason to die. In thinking of her every possible human emotion twisted into indistinguishable knots. She was more than he needed and yet somehow not enough. He wanted to hold her until they became one person. If he could somehow absorb her into his skin, he might finally be satisfied. He suddenly felt like the Hound again, he wanted to bite her, to drink of the holy blood that ran in her veins – he knew the thoughts were crazy, but he knew not how he could get the closeness he so desperately needed without literally consuming her.

Her small voice snapped him out of his own deranged musings, “Sandor, promise you’ll never leave me.”

He didn't hesitate, “Little bird, I couldn’t leave you if I tried.”

“No, you must vow it to me. Never leave me, no matter what happens. If I become as cold as Cersei, as cruel as Daenerys, please don’t leave me. Kill me if you must, but never walk away from me. Please.” He looked up at her and it was clear how serious she was.

“I won’t. Ever.”

“Swear it, Sandor.”

“I swear it, little bird. I vow it. I promise it. I’ll never leave you.”

“No matter what.”

“No matter what.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit: Buckets of Rain - Bob Dylan


	84. Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Players gonna play, schemers gonna scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new POV from one of the characters we love to hate

**Petyr**

It was hard not to feel arrogant when everything was going so perfectly according to plan. His little spiders had told him that Sansa was going to answer Tywin Lannister’s call, so it was an easy decision for Petyr to do the same. It had been so easy to convince young Lord Arryn to give his blessing, not that it was entirely needed. All Petyr had to do was mention to Robert Arryn that his cousin – his pretty, _female_ cousin – was bravely leading her men into battle, and Robert himself demanded that Petyr do the same. Petyr commended the young lord’s decision, _“As you wish, my Lord. It is risky of course, but the Knights of the Vale are no doubt up for the challenge.”_

And now, just over a fortnight later, Petyr was watching her go toe-to-toe with Lord Banefort and Lord Lannister. Her poise and her beauty charmed every man around her, and she wasn’t even trying.

_Still innocent, even now that she is a Queen, even now that she has spilled blood, and seen the worst horrors of the world, she is still so innocent…_

_So sweet…_

_But is she still as pliable?_

It had been easy to bend her to his will in the Vale. She was so eager to please, so desperate for a family, it almost felt unfair… Gaining her trust, getting her in his bed, getting her to go along with all of his plans – the marriage to Harrold Hardyng, the marriage to Ramsay Bolton… he was ready for resistance but met almost none.

And to further his surprise, her actions after leaving the Vale played right into his hands, even if they hadn’t been according to his plan. Petyr had learned long ago that luck was as beneficial as strategy.

His only concern now was that she’d risen a bit _too_ high… she’d made too many friends, surrounded herself with men and women who would kill for her.

Jaime and Tyrion Lannister were a problem. Petyr was fairly certain that one or both was in love with Sansa. If she returned the sentiment Petyr would need to find a way to eliminate the threat.

There was also Clegane and the warrior woman – Brienne of Tarth. Neither left her side for a moment; Petyr wondered if the girl even got to shit in privacy. Petyr needed to speak with her alone, but it would seem she was never without one of her guards. Clegane was particularly protective, and Petyr suspected he too may be in love with Sansa, though between his face and his lack of title he wasn’t a threat to the extent that Jaime and Tyrion could be.

All of this could be _handled_ , Petyr was certain, with enough time and care. The bigger problem was Tywin Lannister. The Old Lion seemed to have his own designs on the girl, though to Petyr’s frustration he knew not what they were. The man seemed intent on winning her allegiance, her loyalty, and perhaps even her favor. Petyr sat in his room pondering what the man could be scheming…

Most likely, Tywin was trying to prove trustworthy so that Sansa would bend the knee to Cersei. Despite his reputation of being callous, Tywin saw war as a wasteful affair. He may have come to the realization that Cersei would never stop demanding Sansa’s fealty and would be willing to go to war with the North over it. If Tywin could convince Sansa to bend the knee and assume the role of Wardeness of the North, no doubt the man would view it as quite an accomplishment.

The next most likely motive was that Tywin hoped to broker a marriage between his son and heir, Jaime, and Sansa. It was well known that Jaime’s refusal to claim his birthright was devastating to Tywin. Seeing Jaime follow this young woman so loyally, Tywin likely drew the same conclusion that Petyr had. Another possibility was simply that Tywin wanted to forge a long-term alliance with the Queen in the North. The problem with either of these options of course was Cersei. The spiteful Queen would never bless such agreements. She still believed Sansa had a part in killing Joffrey. Letting her live was one thing but letting her live as a Queen was entirely different… and letting her marry Cersei’s brother and former lover was unfathomable.

Being a man who prided himself on being able to predict any possible outcome, Petyr considered the _least_ likely scenario, but that would create the most trouble for him: _What if Tywin is trying to endear himself with Sansa not for Cersei’s benefit, or for his son’s, or even the realm’s… but for his own?_

It seemed unlikely, knowing Tywin Lannister as long as he had, but certain subtle clues manifested – the way Tywin looked at Sansa – not lustful like most men, but perhaps… _intrigued?_

_Could it be that the Old Lion, who hasn’t taken a lover since his wife died more than three decades ago, might_ fancy _Sansa Stark? A woman young enough to be his granddaughter… A woman who was briefly his good-daughter… A woman who was still rumored to have murdered his grandson…_

Petyr let this scenario play out in his mind. If Tywin sought a marriage with the Queen in the North, what would that mean for him as Hand to Queen Cersei? Cersei would no doubt be outraged, but would she be reckless enough to act against her father’s bride? But what would Tywin gain by joining his House with House Stark if it meant losing the support of the Crown?

Despite the improbability of this last theory, something told Petyr not to rule it out, and that evening he found himself walking toward Lord Tywin’s solar.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

“Lord Baelish, what can I do for you?”

“I know you’re quite busy, my Lord, though I had hoped we might have a private conversation…”

_What is this weasel playing at?_ Something about the man’s ice blue eyes always unnerved Tywin. He often wondered if the way Baelish’s glare made him feel was the way his own glare made countless others feel – scrutinized, studied, surveyed for weak spots.

“Speak your mind, Lord Baelish.”

The man nodded, “I can’t help but be surprised at how willingly you trust the young Queen in the North.”

“I believe I made it clear that nothing should be said against Lady Sansa.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I was _pleasantly_ surprised that you chose to trust her. I believe you and I are both excellent judges of character. I share your appraisal of her.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he spoke the words plainly – Baelish could construe them as sincere or sarcastic.

“I only hoped I might share my own knowledge of the young woman, because I believe it may be pertinent to you.”

“What makes you think I need a deeper knowledge of Sansa Stark?”

“Because it is important to know one’s allies.”

“Indeed. Go on then.”

“As you may know, her time with the Boltons was rather unpleasant.”

“If you think this is news, Lord Baelish, you’re mistaken.”

“But perhaps the _extent_ of the unpleasantness will be news to you.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes. He had heard that Ramsay Bolton was abusive, and even without those rumors anyone who knew the Boltons by reputation would have held the same assumption. _What specifically is Baelish hinting at?_

“Please speak plainly and factually, Lord Baelish. I’m too busy for riddles.”

“My apologies, Lord Lannister. You are right, of course. What I mean to say is what I have heard from reliable sources, that the girl was severely mistreated by her husband. Quite bluntly, she endured tortures that most prisoners are never even subjected to.”

“That is unfortunate, but I do not know why you are telling me this.”

“Because, my lord, as much as it saddens me to say this, I believe the girl is broken. They say she is incapable of love, and has refused numerous proposals, even one from a man who she’s known since she was a child – a man who by all accounts she should care for and trust.”

“Again, _why_ are you telling me this? She’s a Queen, if she doesn’t wish to marry, she doesn’t need to.”

“Indeed, but without a husband, without an heir, the North is vulnerable. And – I didn’t want to have to tell you this, but I think it is important… I have heard the girl is suicidal. She has attempted to kill herself at least once, and by all accounts her attack on the Night King was not motivated by bravery but by a death wish. I can’t help but wonder if she isn’t planning the same for the battle to come. Does her plan for killing the Dragon Queen not border on suicidal, in your mind? It certainly does to me.”

“She can kill herself in the process, as long as she takes out the Targaryen girl I care not.”

“With all due respect, Lord Lannister – I do not believe that.”

Tywin felt his anger build. Few people ever dared to accuse him of lying. What’s worse, Baelish was right – it _did_ matter to Tywin that Sansa survive the upcoming duel.

“What are you implying, Lord Baelish?”

“That you do care, because you should care. _She_ is the reason you aren’t in open war with the North as we speak. Every Northern lord and lady despises you, the Crown, and the West, including her brother, Jon Stark, who she has named her heir. If rumors are to be believed, he and his sister butt heads on many topics – one of which is how _you_ should be dealt with. He blames you for the death of his brother and stepmother. Moreover, he believes you are the one who told Joffrey to execute Ned Stark. You asked me to speak plainly and I will do so now: if Sansa Stark dies when she meets the Dragon Queen, there will be nothing preventing the North from turning on you.”

Tywin considered these words. With Littlefinger it was impossible to know the line between truth and lie, because the man was adept at weaving truths seamlessly into his lies. Tywin knew only one thing with certainty: the man _never_ spoke or acted unless it benefited him.

_Why is he here telling me this? What does he hope to gain? Furthermore, why is here at all? Why did he answer my call after the Vale has avoided war for decades?_

“You speak as a man who has a solution.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. The girl needs to be wedded, and quickly, to someone you trust, someone who will not turn on you at the first opportunity.”

_And there it is…_

“Assuming I could _force_ her to marry, which I cannot, who do you have in mind?”

“I’m afraid few Southerners would view it as an advantageous match. For one thing, she is an enemy of Queen Cersei. For another, despite her beauty, men are afraid of her. They believe she is cold-hearted and clearly not opposed to murdering a husband who displeases her…”

“Indeed, it is a predicament.”

“I would suggest your sons, however I fear – and please forgive me for saying it – that their allegiance lies with the North now. Similarly, marrying her into her mother’s family, the Tullys, may not be advisable. They are loyal to you now out of fear; with all of the North behind them, they may gain a certain bravery to defy you.”

“That leaves few options.”

“It does, though I believe I have a solution. My lord, I realize this will make me sound opportunistic, but I believe Sansa would be open to a marriage with _me,_ if given enough motivation. As you may recall, I was very close to her mother and aunt. I believe Sansa trusts me.”

_Slippery as an eel._

“And what motivation would get this young woman, who you say is incapable of love, to agree to a marriage with you?”

“She is willing to sacrifice for her people. The North still struggles to feed its people. With a generous payment and a peace treaty with the Crown, I believe she would make the selfless decision.”

“Perhaps you are right, Lord Baelish, but if we try to make this marriage occur before the battle it will only alarm her. She will think it is a ploy and would fear for her life.”

Baelish looked disappointed but hid it quickly, “Your logic is sound. At minimum, though, perhaps we can begin planting the seeds, and hope she does indeed survive the battle.”

“Allow me to consider your suggestion, though in the meantime, Lord Baelish, I would ask that you speak of this to no one, including Lady Stark herself.”

“Of course, my lord,” Baelish bowed his exit.

Tywin didn’t survive this long without knowing when he was being tested… and _that_ was most definitely a test. Indeed, Baelish did hope to gain Tywin’s support in his attempt to wed Sansa, but the man was also searching for something. He had been probing for Tywin’s innermost thoughts, but Tywin gave him nothing. This was a chess match: Tywin knew it and Baelish knew it, only Baelish didn’t know that Tywin knew.

Knowing what his next move would be, Tywin did something he’d rarely done: he smiled.

\--------------------------------------------------------

Tywin waited until dessert was served to extend his invitation. He had the Cook make lemon cakes – he remembered that Tyrion had requested this confection for his wedding to the girl years ago, saying they were her favorite.

Sansa was indeed enjoying the treats, though obviously reluctant to do so in present company.

“My lady, I’m sure you are tired, but I had hoped for a few minutes of your company in my solar this evening. I have something to give you, and I believe you’d prefer to receive it in private.”

She looked at him suspiciously but nodded, “Of course, my lord. It would be my pleasure, though I’m sure you know Ser Brienne or Clegane will wish to accompany me.”

“I understand their and your concern, though I’d strongly encourage you to have them guard you from outside the door. I believe what I have to say you will wish to be for your ears only, at least for now.”

“Giving me something or telling me something – which is it, my lord?”

“Both.”

“I admit my curiosity is piqued. I shall join you privately.”

…

He could tell she was on edge being alone in his company, but she hid it well enough. Not wanting to prolong her discomfort, he gestured toward the box on his table.

“For you, my lady.”

Hesitantly she removed the lid, and her eyes lit up when she saw the contents.

“You may recognize the Valyrian steel, it once belonged to your father’s greatsword.”

_“Ice,”_ she whispered.

“Yes, part of it. The other part you know as Oathkeeper, the sword my son Jaime wields in your name.”

“But the other half you had gifted to Joffrey for his wedding, I remember.”

“A gift he never got to use and was unworthy of in the first place. The sword belongs with a Stark, though I heard you prefer daggers, and – meaning no offense – you’re rather slight to be wielding a longsword. I hope you are pleased with my choice.”

“I am,” her words were genuine and eyes transfixed finger down the flat of the shortsword then repeated the motion with each of the daggers. The three weapons had matching pommels of a snarling direwolf’s head. The shortsword’s was black, one of the dagger’s was gray, and its twin was white.

When her trance finally broke, she looked directly in Tywin’s eyes, “My lord, I do not wish to sound ungrateful, but I can’t help but wonder… First you send us wagons of food, wine, and supplies – even gold. Now you give me a gift of Valyrian steel, which is all but priceless… What do you expect in return?”

_Clever girl._

“Nothing, my lady. Or rather, nothing you haven’t already given. I meant what I said in my letter: you saved the realm of men, and for that you are owed much more than a few wagons of provisions. Now you commit your battle-weary armies to once again fight to save the realm. That is worth much more than a shortsword and two daggers. I fear my _gifts_ are shamefully inadequate. Which leads me to the matter I wished to discuss with you. The matter that must remain between you and I until you are ready to act on the knowledge I’m about to disclose.”

She furrowed her brow but nodded for him to continue.

“Another gift accompanies the story I’m about to tell you, though I fear it is not a gift that will please you as the others did.”

Tywin unlocked a drawer and produced a dagger. He held it flat for Sansa to look at it. The blade was also made of Valyrian steel – long and thin, with a gentle curve. The hilt was made of dragonbone. The weapon was beautiful in its simplicity – the type of beauty Tywin appreciated.

“I don’t understand,” she finally whispered.

“Nor should you. Tell me, Lady Sansa, do you know why your mother kidnapped my son Tyrion those many years ago?”

Sansa’s mouth was agape, “She believed he was behind the assassination attempt on my brother Bran.”

“That is true, but he was not.”

“I know, my lord. Tyrion has confided in me as much, and I believe him.”

“Then do you know _why_ your mother accused Tyrion?”

“That I do not, though I have wondered about it often.”

Tywin nodded, “She accused Tyrion because of this blade. _This_ is the dagger used in the assassination attempt of your brother. Your mother showed it to Lord Baelish, who told her it had once been his own dagger, but that he had lost it some time past to my son Tyrion in a bet – over a game of Cyvasse.”

“If that were true, Lord Baelish would never admit that, not while Tyrion is alive to refute the claim.”

“Of course not. He has never admitted it, not to my knowledge at least.”

“Then how do you know this is what transpired?”

“Because someone I trust was a direct witness, along with someone _you_ trust, though unfortunately the latter can no longer attest to what he saw. I will not tell you who my source is, but the other witness was Ser Rodrik Cassel, who accompanied your mother to meet Baelish.”

“Then how did you come to possess this?”

“I’m afraid you will not like that answer, my lady. It was in your mother’s possession until her death at the hands of the Freys and Boltons. Roose Bolton seized the dagger and sent it to me as a personal _thank you_ for convincing Joffrey to name him Warden of the North.”

Sansa stared at him. He could tell the girl’s mind was spinning, taking in all the information he’d shared and – more significantly – the ramifications of these truths. He wondered if her next words would focus on Tywin’s involvement in the Red Wedding or on Baelish’s involvement in the start of the war. It turned out to be the latter.

Her breathing visibly quickened, “But… that belief is what caused my mother to kidnap Tyrion, and that is what caused Ser Jaime to arrest my father and kill his men…”

Tywin said nothing.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked angrily.

“I told you, there isn’t enough wine and gold and Valyrian steel in the world to repay you for your sacrifices to the realm. But I believe you place a value on the truth more than on any material possession. A Lannister always pays his debts. I believe I owe you a debt, not just in appreciation for your service to the realm and for answering my call, but…” he sighed, “but for what befell you and your family. Do not take this as an admission of personal guilt, my lady. I have none. Our families were at war. A war which your parents played a key role in starting, even if it was not their intent.”

She shook her head, “No… this doesn’t make sense. You’re the one with the dagger and this alleged knowledge… perhaps it was you who sent the assassin – you who started the war… everyone knows you despise your son, perhaps you wanted to be rid of Tyrion and start a war…”

“And how would I benefit from that? My daughter was the queen, I was content with my life as Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock. Why would I want to start a war, hmm?”

“Why would Petyr Baelish?”

“I think you know, my lady.”

She shook her head again, “No.”

“Wishing it to be a lie will not make it one.”

“No!”

He would say no more. She had to put the pieces together herself, and he knew she was smart enough to do so.

“No… no, no, no.”

She brought a hand up to her mouth.

_Fuck!_

He brought a pitcher to her mouth just in time to catch the vomit she spewed. The odor of regurgitated lamb, wine, and lemons almost made him retch, as well, though she seemed completely unashamed. She sat heavily in a chair, “He…”

_Betrayed you? Manipulated you?_

“He…”

_Took liberties with you?_

Some minutes passed in silence. Tywin was at a loss for what to do or say, so he did and said nothing.

Suddenly, Sansa rose so abruptly that Tywin jumped.

“Thank you for the gifts, my lord. Whatever debt you felt you owed me has been paid in full, though do not think this makes us friends.”

Her eyes bore no evidence of distress, nor any other emotion. She placed the dagger in the box with her other gifts and walked calmly out of his solar, and Tywin could only stare at the door in wonder.


	85. The Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some insight into Lord Tywin's mind.

**Sandor**

This isn’t how he wanted to spend their final days before the battle. He wanted to spend his time with the little bird, not the Ice Queen, but as soon as she stepped out of Lord Tywin’s solar, he knew that his wish would not be granted. Whatever the man had said had clearly cast a gloom over her, though her ire did not appear to be directed at Tywin himself. She showed Sandor the gifts he had given her. Sandor couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship. The daggers were light as a feather and so sharp you could cut yourself without even feeling it. The man was clearly trying to buy her loyalty.

After her mood was unchanged all the next day, Sandor decided to take matters into his own hands. That evening he entered her room with a demand on his lips, “Talk.”

She looked at him with dead eyes, “About what?”

“You know… about whatever has caused this state you’re in.”

“I can’t.”

“I thought we were past this, girl. This secret keeping. This hiding the past.”

“It’s not like that this time.”

“Well all I see is that you’re shutting me out again. Hells, Sansa, one or both of us could be dead in a few days. I would hope you’d agree there are better ways to spend our time, so let’s skip ahead to the part where you tell me what’s bothering you. You know you’ll feel better for it.”

“Alright.”

“Good. Wait, what?”

“I said alright, I’ll tell you, but I must be vague. I promise you will know all soon enough. Don’t say I’m speaking in riddles. Just hear what I say, and promise you won’t do anything about it, just yet.”

Sandor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d expected her to kick him out of the room, to yell, to slap him… anything but agree to talk. He nodded, dumbfounded.

“You remember I told you before that Petyr isn’t a monster like Ramsay was?”

“Aye.”

“I was wrong.”

He mulled her words, “Tywin told you something about him, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe it?”

“Yes.”

“But I still don’t get to kill him?”

Sandor sat on the bed, defeated. Sansa knelt before him and whispered into his palm, “Not yet, but soon, my love,” punctuating her sentence with a kiss.

Sandor smiled, but it may have resembled a snarl.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

The Dragon Queen’s attack was expected in two days, which meant a feast was in order. Tyrion knew his father loathed this tradition, but also accepted that it had benefits on morale. Nothing like hot food, good wine, and willing girls to keep men from defecting out of fear.

In years past, Tywin had been known to make an appearance but would retire before the livelier and bawdier activities were underway, so Tyrion was surprised to see his father join the revelry taking place in the camps. Though _observe_ was probably a more accurate verb than _join._

Tyrion was strolling with Bronn when they came upon Jaime, Brienne, Podrick, and Tormund. Soon after Beric and Thoros joined the group, along with a few of Tormund’s Wildling friends.

“And where is the rest of our merry band of misfits?” Tyrion asked.

Jaime answered through a mouthful of what looked like roasted chicken, “If you mean Clegane and Theon, they’re busy protecting our Queen from all the people who _aren’t_ trying to kill her.”

“I wish I could share your confidence. By now Daenerys must know she is here. I wouldn’t put it past her to send more assassins.”

“True, though any man that wouldn’t be deterred by a direwolf and Clegane are too stupid to be much of a threat.”

Bronn nearly spit out his ale, “ _More_ assassins?”

Tyrion laughed, “Yes, have we not shared that story? Daenerys sent five well-trained assassins to kill our dear queen. Luckily, she doesn’t leave home without her guard dog, er, her metaphorical guard dog, not her actual guard _wolf._ ”

Bronn looked incredulous, “That would have been useful information to share with the lords who thought she was in cahoots with the Dragon bitch.”

Tyrion laughed again, and Jaime, Beric, and Thoros shared his amusement, “Funny, I’d actually forgotten about it. So much has happened since then, not to mention _before_ then. I suppose it’s rather sad when assassination attempts fall so low on the list of things to worry about.”

“Bugger me! Remind me never to visit you in Winterfell,” Bronn rolled his eyes.

Jaime chuckled, “It’s really not so bad, once you get past the walking dead and constant threat of frostbite.”

“Hey – you better take frostbite seriously, Lannister - you’re only a few fingers away from being a gimp.”

“Oh, how I’ve missed you!”

“So where is your Queen anyway? Too good to sit here with the likes of you?” Bronn asked.

“On the contrary, you are looking at Lady Sansa’s dearest friends!” Tyrion looked around, “And yes, where _is_ our queen? Ah! There she is, the poor girl! It looks like she needs to be rescued, she’s stuck in a conversation with Lord Brax and Lord Lefford… having a tooth pulled is less painful.” He turned back to his table, “Comrades, are any of you brave enough to join me on this dangerous rescue mission? I must warn you, at stake is your very sanity, should you get trapped listening to Lord Lefford recount his heroics in the recent war.”

Jaime stood on drunk legs, “I shall join you, brother. I’ve been a victim of the very boredom of which you speak. I cannot stand by and watch my Queen suffer the same fate!”

The drunken pair was laughing their way toward Sansa when, to their shock, their father approached her. They stopped dead in their tracks and exchanged a glance as whatever Tywin said succeeded in scaring off the dull lords.

\-----------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

“I hope you didn’t mind the intrusion, but those men are insufferable, I feared another minute of listening to them would have you packing up your tents and heading back north.”

As he walked next to Sansa, Tywin felt three sets of eyes burning into his skull – two sets belonged to men, one belonged to a wolf.

“I appreciate your intervention, my lord, even if it was done for selfish motives.”

Tywin was out of practice with casual conversation, not that he’d ever been particularly good at it.

“I trust you are enjoying the festivities, my lady.”

“I am, though I admit it is strange to be among Southerners again.”

“We are Westerners, my lady, there is a difference.”

She huffed.

“The man shielding your back is a Westerner. My sons you seem so fond of are Westerners. _Your mother_ was a Westerner…”

“My mother was of the Riverlands, my lord.”

“Riverrun is more Westerlands than Riverlands, despite the name.”

“You’ve made your point, my lord.”

They continued strolling, each with their hands crossed behind their back.

“It occurred to me, my lady, that I never offered you a tour of the Rock. As it may be nothing more than rubble in a few days, perhaps you would indulge me by accompanying me to a few places of note.”

She eyed him curiously but agreed.

He led Sansa and her guards first to the Golden Gallery, though didn’t like the idea of the large beast being among the ancient treasures. Sansa seemed unimpressed by the solid gold sculptures and ornaments but was courteous enough. Sensing the opulence was lost on her, he led her to the Hall of Heroes. Here she and Clegane both were clearly impressed by the suits of armor on display, though had little interest in learning about the Lannister heroes interred there.

Tywin saved the Stone Garden for last, remembering the girl spent much time in the Godswood of the Red Keep. His bet paid off, as she was visibly impressed by the twisted weirwood tree as well as the exotic flowers and plants.

After a few minutes of silent admiration she addressed him, “Your gardens are lovely, Lord Tywin. Thank you for allowing me to look upon them.”

He could tell her words were genuine, not some empty courtesies.

“Thank _you_ , my lady. It pleases me to show the gardens to someone who appreciates their beauty.”

“I’d not take you for much of a botanist, my lord.”

The conversation had taken an oddly personal turn, and Tywin was not comfortable with the potential trajectory, “I’m not. I haven’t the time, interest, or aptitude, but a man who cannot appreciate the magnificence of nature does not deserve his own eyes.” _That’s what Joanna used to say. Why am I thinking of her now?_

He pushed the image of his late wife out of his mind and cleared his throat, “I’m sure you’ll wish to return to your men.” He led her back to the camp in complete silence. If she noticed his change in temper, she was good enough not to speak of it.

…

_Fucking minstrels._

For Tywin, the worst part of any celebration was the so-called _entertainment_. How a man whining about his lost lady love or some other woes could sound pleasing to the ears was something Tywin would never comprehend. Worse yet were the bawdy songs that used poorly veiled inuendo to extol the virtues of a woman’s cunt.

Tywin was secretly delighted when the rowdy Northerners booed away the minstrel, telling him to come back when he had something new to sing. _Finally, no more screeching._

But such would not be the case. The drunk priest, Thoros of Myr, was shouting to Sansa who seemed to be trying to make herself disappear, “Where do you think you’re going, your grace?!”

She squeezed her eyes shut and turned around. Now Thoros and the Wildling Lord were dragging her back to the circle from which the minstrel had just been evicted. Even by only lantern and torch light Tywin could see the girl’s blush.

“You’re not going to bed until you’ve sung us a song or two… or ten. Come on, show these Southerners what real music is,” Tormund insisted.

“I don’t have anything new to sing!”

“That’s a lie, Red Wolf! We all hear you strumming away at night in your tent.”

“It’s not appropriate now, we’re not in the North, it would be rude!”

Thoros was insistent, “Pff! Fuck that. Anyone who doesn’t want to listen can find somewhere else to sit, this camp stretches for miles. Come on! Do you need wine, is that it?”

She crossed her arms like a petulant child before apparently relenting, “I hate you.” She snatched the wineskin from the priest’s hands and took several deep swallows.

“We love you too," the Wildling lord beamed.

The familiarity she was permitting from the men, along with the fact that she was about to sing, was causing Tywin to lose the respect he’d held for the woman. _Just what the world needs, another romantic fool._

A few moments later a red-faced squire – the boy Tywin knew to be Podrick Payne – appeared with a small stringed instrument. _Gods, this is going to be torture._

Sansa drank more of the wine as many of her people came over, clearly eager to hear their queen sing. _I suppose they have little entertainment up north._

Some of the Southern Lords also gathered, fascinated by the idea of a noblewoman about to get drunk and sing at a feast.

Sansa strummed the instrument, and addressed her audience, “Well this one isn’t new, I’ve just never sung it for you before. You know what I’m about to say, if you don’t like it, blame Thoros and Tormund.”

> _Here a tower shining bright  
> _ _Once stood gleaming in the night  
> _ _Where now there's just the rubble in a hole  
> _ _Here kings from every corner  
> _ _Came to gamble with our lives  
> _ _Came to gamble with our lives not long ago_
> 
> _Oh they chewed up all the trees  
> _ _For a hundred thousand leagues  
> _ _Now washed away with dead dreams in the rain  
> _ _And folk are running scared  
> _ _And they're feeding on their fears  
> _ _And it's just another bloody way to die_
> 
> _Oh sweet castle of my dreams  
> _ _Built of stone and warmed of springs  
> _ _Like Woodfoot you just disappeared from view  
> _ _And the banner of my sire  
> _ _Has been burnt upon their pyre  
> _ _Like the black dog that once raced out of my room_

The Northerners and even many of the Southerners applauded loudly when she was finished. Tywin had to admit she was skilled with the instrument, and her voice was not unpleasant, though he thought there were already more than enough songs about the damages of war.

_The black dog that once raced out of my room?_ Tywin looked to Clegane, who kept his eyes lowered. _Interesting._

More drinking, laughing, and talking ensued before Sansa began another song, though this one she introduced, “It’s only fitting that while we’re in the birthplace of Tyrion Lannister, I play a song I wrote partly in his honor.”

Tyrion held up his cup, “In that case, it’s a good thing there are no children present!”

The crowd laughed.

_Bloody fools._

“No, no, my lord. As a matter of fact there is nothing inappropriate in this song.”

Tywin could tell the girl was drunk, but even so her next words shocked him. She raised her own cup in toast, “To the late Ramsay Bolton, who made Tyrion Lannister look like the greatest husband who ever lived.”

A few people laughed nervously, but Sansa herself seemed rather unbothered by the memory of her former tormentor.

> _When I first wed, it was suicide_ _  
> Rode out of town, a maiden bride  
>  If you weren’t a lion, you’d be immortalized  
> _ _As it was, you were demonized_
> 
> _Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh…_ _  
>   
> Now my hair’s on fire  
>  Walking down the aisle  
> When I turned that corner  
> Drowned my savior down in the Blackwater  
> _ _In the Blackwater  
> _ _In the Black…_ _  
>   
> Face to face our eyes will see  
>  That I am you and you are me  
> I am the lie inside the dark  
> _ _Tonight we dance endlessly_ _  
> In the quiet, three hearts beat  
> _ _Until the morning breaks us free_
> 
> _Now my hair’s on fire_ _  
> Walking down the aisle  
>  When I turned that corner  
> Drowned my savior down in the Blackwater  
> _ _In the Blackwater  
> _ _In the Black…_

Tyrion whistled and clapped passionately and even gave Sansa a highly improper hug. Tywin noticed the Greyjoy boy exchange a queer glance with Sansa.

The crowd clamored for more and after a short break to sip her wine she obliged them. The Wildling woman named Val shouted out to ask who or what the next song was about. Sansa seemed to consider her response carefully, “Waking up,” she said simply.

> _How can I decide what's right  
> _ _When you're clouding up my mind  
> _ _I can't win this losing fight  
> _ _All the time_
> 
> _Nor could I ever own what's mine  
> _ _When you're always taking sides  
> _ _But you won't take away my pride  
> _ _No, not this time  
> _ _Not this time_
> 
> _How did I get here?  
> _ _When I used to know me so well?  
> _ _How did we get here?  
> _ _Well, I think I know the answer_
> 
> _The truth is hiding in your eyes  
> _ _And it's hanging on your tongue  
> _ _Just boiling in my blood  
> _ _But you think that I can't see  
> _ _What kind of man that you are  
> _ _If you're a man at all  
> _ _Well, I will figure this one out  
> _ _On my own  
> _ _I'm screaming I love you so  
> _ _But my thoughts you’ll never know_
> 
> _How did I get here  
> _ _When I used to know me so well  
> _ _How did we get here  
> _ _Well, I think I know the answer_
> 
> _Do you see what we've done  
> _ _We've gone and made such fools of ourselves  
> _ _Do you see what you’ve done  
> _ _You’re gonna make a fool of yourself_
> 
> _How did I get here  
> _ _When I used to know me so well  
> _ _How did we get here  
> _ _Oh won’t you show yourself_
> 
> _I think I know  
> _ _I think I know  
> _ _There is something I see in you  
> _ _It might kill me, but I know it to be true_

Everyone was speechless, clearly moved by the song that was sung with such raw emotion it sounded more like a confession, even if few of them knew its meaning. Without realizing it, Tywin saw his hands clapping together in applause, and soon the entire crowd joined him.

Sansa stood and was sipping her wine, talking to Val, Tormund, and Clegane when Tywin approached her. “My lady, a word,” he took her elbow gently.

When he was sure no one could hear them he whispered one word, “Baelish?”

She nodded.

“When?”

“After Harry died.”

Tywin nodded. _So it’s true…_

Tywin returned to his seat without another word. 

Several more minutes of drinking and merriment passed before the Wildling Lord prodded Sansa for another song, _“something happy,”_ he’d said.

Once again, she took her spot, hummed her melody, then began playing a lively tune that demonstrated her talent with the instrument.

> _There's a big ol' hole  
>  That's gone right through the sole  
> Of this old shoe  
> And the water on the ground  
> Ain't got no place else it’s found  
> So it's only got one thing left to do_
> 
> _Creep on in  
>  Creep on in  
> And once it has begun  
> Won't stop until it's done  
> Sneaking in_
> 
> _There's a silver moon  
>  That came just a little soon  
> _ _Oh for me to bare  
>  It shines brightly on my bed  
> And the shadows overhead  
> Won't let me sleep as long as they're there_
> 
> _Creep on in  
>  Creep on in  
> And once it has begun  
> Won't stop until it'd done  
> Sneaking in_
> 
> _There's a big ol' hole  
>  That goes right through my soul  
> Oh and that ain't nothing new  
> So as long as you're around  
> And got no place else you're bound  
> There's only one thing for you to do_
> 
> _Creep on in  
>  Creep on in  
> And once you have begun  
> Don't stop until you're done  
> Sneaking in_

The melody was horrendously cheerful, but Tywin was preoccupied with the strange glances that passed between Sansa and Clegane for the final verses of the song. _Interesting, again._

There was something between the pair, but Tywin was not sure what it was, precisely. A friendship? Perhaps. Mutual trust? Most definitely. Lust? On Clegane’s part, not doubt… but on her part, Tywin could not say. He had a hard time believing any woman could want a man as grotesquely scarred as Clegane was, with a horrible temper to match.

He filed the question away for a later date and turned his attention to the others around him. His younger son had found a wench – no surprise there. He, Bronn, and Tormund seemed to share a never-satisfied thirst for wine and cunt.

Jaime was speaking with the warrior woman – Brienne of Tarth. His normally cocky son looked oddly shy in her presence. It made Tywin clench his jaw. His entire life he’d hoped Jaime would someday meet a Lady, settle down, and have children – _legitimate children._ Now Tywin realized his wishes should have been more specific. How Jaime could spend his days in Sansa’s company and still find attractive qualities in the Tarth maid was a puzzle… an unsolvable puzzle. Tywin imagined the only place Brienne would appeal to any man would be at the Wall… and even there he supposed a man of slight build may seem more of a prize.

He spotted Baelish approaching out of the corner of his eye but ignored the man until the last possible second.

“Quite an entertaining evening, don’t you agree, my lord?”

“I do, Lord Baelish.”

“I wonder if you’ve had the chance to consider my suggestion.”

“I have, and I’ve decided to postpone further consideration until after the impending battle.”

“I see. Of course. I do appreciate the need to prioritize, particularly in times like these.”

“Indeed.”

“Would it be safe to assume though, my lord, that I’d have your blessing in making my wishes known to Lady Sansa, a respectable amount of time after the battle?”

_Like she’d marry you._

“I am not her father, and you are my ally, not my subject. I do not believe you need my blessing, Lord Baelish.”

“Need it? No. But I’d certainly prefer to have it.”

“From the Lord of Casterly Rock or the Hand of the Queen?”

Baelish flashed his wretched half-smile, “The latter, my lord.”

“On this _particular_ matter, I’m afraid I cannot speak on behalf of Queen Cersei. Lady Stark has been told to bend the knee or be an enemy of the Crown. Perhaps you’d be wise to wait until her status in the Crown’s eyes has been established, lest you wed yourself to a traitor.”

“Harsh words. Does Lady Stark know that when this is all said and done, nothing will have changed?”

“I’ve done nothing to indicate otherwise, though it is hardly your concern.”

“It will be, if I intend to marry her.”

“You sound rather presumptuous, Lord Baelish. Are you so certain Lady Stark will accept your proposal?”

“I am a man who never counts his winnings until they’re in his purse… but I’m also a man who likes to be prepared for every possible eventuality.”

“Both are habits I can respect. Now if you’ll excuse me, Lord Baelish, it appears your _future wife_ is going to grace us with another song.”

Tywin turned his attention back to the circle where Sansa sat ready to play another tune. A very inebriated Jaime was requesting something somber to end the night. Looking around, Tywin noticed many men passed out drunk, and others being led away by opportunistic whores.

Sansa nodded, “I have one that I think will please you, Ser Jaime.”

“Who is it about, my lady?”

“No one in particular. An old man of my own conception, born poor of coin and dies poor of love.”

“Hmm… not sure I’ll be able to relate, unless you reverse his fortunes.”

Sansa smiled at Jaime then began her song.

> _Four and eighty years ago, I come into this life  
> _ _The son of a woman and a man who lived in strife  
> _ _He was tired of being poor, cheating and stealing he did abhor  
> _ _So he worked like a dog to be more_
> 
> _A different kind of poverty now upsets me so  
> _ _Night after sleepless night, I walk the floor and I want to know  
> _ _Why am I so alone?  
> _ _Where is my woman can I bring her home?  
> _ _Have I driven her away?  
> _ _Is she gone?_
> 
> _M_ _ourning comes at sunset and I'm driven to my bed  
> _ _I see that it is empty and there's demons in my head_  
>  _I embrace the many-colored beast  
> _ _I grow weary of the torment, can there be no peace?  
> _ _And I find myself just wishing that my life would cease_

\---------------------------------------------------

Tywin was in his bedchamber but had no memory of getting there.

_How much did I drink?_

_Not that much…_

No, he had not drunk more than four glasses of watered wine over the course of the feast, which lasted from dusk until after midnight. He was stone sober, and yet his head felt foggy and his feet felt heavy. He forced himself to remember the past several minutes.

_There was a song, and then…_

_And then nothing, then you were here. Alone. Like the man in her song._

Tywin paced his room for a few minutes, knowing what he needed but trying to resist the urge. Finally he yanked his door open and spoke to his guard – a man who’d served him loyally and discreetly for nearly twenty years, “Bring me a girl.”

A half hour later a girl arrived. Tywin never requested the same whore twice. Occasionally by pure luck he’d get one he’d had before, but he was sure to never specify it – it felt too much like a relationship, too much like betraying his wife’s memory. He could only justify using whores to satisfy his bodily needs on rare occasion, when his hand would not suffice. Tonight was one of those nights.

_How dare she sing that song? I know what the bitch was doing; she wrote that song about me... She thinks I’m a cold, lonely old man._

_But aren’t you?_

_No! I’m the Great Lion of Casterly Rock. I restored my family name after my father destroyed it. I made my daughter the Queen. If my son was willing, I could have made him Warden of the North, or Lord of the Riverlands or Vale… I could even have married him to Margaery Tyrell and given him the Reach…_

The whore finally mustered the courage to spoke, “How might I please you, m’lord?” she curtseyed.

“You can stop staring at me with doe eyes, for one. Don’t play coy girl, if I wanted a maiden, I’d have called for one. Undress and get on your knees.”

The girl wasted no time in unlacing his breeches and swallowing his cock. He fisted her hair and fucked her mouth. He could hear and feel her gagging, but he cared not, she was a whore, not a lady.

Tywin always prided himself on his self-control, and it applied not just to his business and political affairs but also to his bedroom encounters. He could delay his peak for however long he wished, though usually he had no interest in prolonging things – he was far too busy to waste hours in the bedroom that should have been spent in the throne room or council room.

But tonight he felt the need to draw out this meeting. Pulling the girl up by her arm he spun her around and bent her over his desk. He took her roughly from behind, and only now did he notice the girl’s hair – a pretty shade of strawberry blond that splayed out on his desk. It was quite lovely… like Lannister blond mixed with Tully red…

_No… you’ll not think of her. She’s no one, nothing._

Bending over the girl he whispered in her ear, “What’s your name, girl?”

“Sarra, m’lord.”

_Fuck… even sounds like Sansa._

“Who am I, girl?”

“Lord Tywin Lannister, m’lord,” the girl responded meekly.

He drove himself into her hard and she cried out.

“Who am I, girl?”

“The lion, m’lord! The Lannister Lion… the Great Lion!”

With a few more thrusts he spilled himself in her and roared like his namesake into the back of her hair.

He sat back in his chair, staring at her swollen cunt.

All the rage was gone, and all that was left was the thing that was always there: emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> White City - The Pogues  
> Gasoline Bride - Nicole Atkins  
> Decode - Paramore  
> Creepin' In - Norah Jones w/Dolly Parton  
> 4 + 20 - Crosby Stills Nash and Young


	86. A Caution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick chapter.

**Sandor**

It was going to be hard to keep his word. The moment Littlefucker approached Sansa for a _private_ conversation, Sandor’s sword hand itched. Sandor was accompanying Sansa on an after-dinner stroll the night before the Dragon Queen was expected to arrive. They stood atop a walkway overlooking the ocean, listening to the sound of the crashing waves. She looked peaceful. Sandor was about to chance a kiss on her neck when Littlefucker slithered out of the shadows.

“Your grace, what a pleasure to run into you here.”

_As if it was a coincidence._

“Lord Baelish,” she responded coldly.

“Quite a view… nothing you can see at Winterfell.”

“Indeed.”

“I must say, my lady, I was hoping for an opportunity to catch up, but it seems we’ve both been rather preoccupied.”

“War has that effect on people, my lord.”

Baelish forced a laugh, “Well, since neither of us are assured to survive the morrow, I hope you’ll forgive me for interrupting your evening stroll.”

“Are _you_ planning on fighting tomorrow, Lord Baelish?”

The man snorted, “I’m afraid my talents are better utilized elsewhere… as are yours, I dare say.”

“I prefer not to send my men to die if I’m not willing to do the same.”

“A most refreshing sentiment, for a Queen… I wonder though, if you haven’t considered you’ll be playing directly into Lord Tywin’s hand…”

“How is that, Lord Baelish?”

“Eliminating two Queens at once would leave his daughter in a rather comfortable position, don’t you think?”

“I highly doubt Daenerys and I will both meet our ends.”

“I wish I could share your confidence. I only fear—”

Sansa stopped walking and turned to face the man, “What do you fear?”

He recoiled slightly at her tone, “I fear for you, my dear, don’t you know that by now?”

“Find something else to worry yourself over, my lord,” she resumed walking.

“Sansa wait…” Baelish grabbed Sansa’s arm, and Sandor let him hear his sword being drawn. Baelish looked at him for the first time, “I mean no harm to your lady.”

“Talk all you want Littlefinger, but keep your hands to yourself,” Sandor snarled.

Baelish forced another chuckle, “You are right, my lady… you have more than enough protectors, you needn’t add me to the list; yet where they can offer their strong arms and steel, I mean to offer you my counsel.”

“Then offer it.”

“Very well, if you prefer we speak bluntly, so be it. I’d caution you against trusting Tywin Lannister. The man does nothing that doesn’t benefit his family, and at the moment, his family is your enemy… or had you forgotten?”

“I forget _nothing_ , Lord Baelish,” the frost in her tone was enough to make Baelish step back, but the man was not deterred for long.

“I understand you may feel I share some… _responsibility_ for what befell you, with the Boltons. And I’m sorry for what you had to endure, believe me in that. But please do not let that taint your opinion of me… I care for you a great deal, Sansa. And I fear you are walking into a hornet’s nest, or, more aptly, the lion’s den.”

“And may I ask why you suspect this?”

“Lord Tywin is your friend now, because it benefits him. When it no longer benefits him, he will no longer be your friend. Moreover, I suspect he wants something from you, though I know not what it is.”

“Every man wants something from me, Lord Baelish… I’m an unwed Queen.”

“You are most astute, my lady. I only wished to voice my concern to an old friend.”

“Your concern is noted, my lord.”

Baelish was lost for words. _A nice change of pace._

Eventually he recovered, “Well, that is all that I wished to accomplish. In case we do not see each other in the morning, I wish you and your men good luck in the battle to come.”

“Likewise, Lord Baelish.”

When Baelish was well out of earshot Sandor grumbled, “I can’t wait to kill that fucker.”

Sansa nodded wistfully, “And I can’t wait to watch you do it.”

He looked at her, but she was again staring out into the ocean. After a deep sigh she took his elbow, “I’m ready to retire. Long day ahead of us.”

As he escorted her back to her - their - chambers, Sandor couldn't help but feel the same fear Baelish had expressed. 


	87. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys attacks Casterly Rock

**Sandor**

The scout’s estimates were surprisingly accurate. Just around midday the Dothraki horde came into view – about 70,000 horse warriors heading northwest toward Casterly Rock. At the same time over 100 ships, presumably carrying about 30,000 Unsulllied were sailing up the coast. As had been her pattern since commencing her attack on Westeros, Daenerys was making no attempts to take her enemies by surprise.

Jaime was leading the force of Northerners that defended the ocean side of the Rock – Sandor, Tormund, Alysane Mormont, Derik Cassel, and Galbart Glover each had a battalion and a station they were responsible for. The Lannister force along with the Tully and Vale armies were on the west side, ready to defend against the Dothraki.

The Rock was difficult to sack from the ocean side due to the steep cliffs and high walls, but it was expected that Daenerys would try to clear the way for her Unsullied by focusing her initial dragon attack on that side. However, if all went according to plan, most of her Unsullied soldiers would perish before making landfall – Bronn, Tyrion and a dozen Lannister archers were hidden out of sight, ready to set the water and the empty Lannister ships aflame with Wildfire after the Unsullied ships entered the inlet. Depending on their success, Jaime would send some or all of the Northern army to join the fight on the western side.

Sandor had to force himself to look at the water and not up and behind him at the bridge between the twin towers where Sansa stood with Theon, Val, and a dozen Northern archers. Even as high up as she was, he could recognize her by her hair, flowing loose like a beacon in the night. He could just barely make out Ghost at her side. If Daenerys would indeed seek out Sansa, she would have no trouble finding her. Knowing that Sansa and her companions could run into either of the connecting towers for cover was little consolation to Sandor. He had, of course, requested to be stationed with her, but she said his sword skills would be wasted there and, as always, he complied.

Time seemed to pass so quickly, likely because, for a change, he was dreading battle instead of looking forward to it. When he saw the ships approaching and heard the familiar dragon screeches his heart began racing like it only had one other time in his life – the Long Night.

As if reading each other’s mind, Beric and Sandor turned to face each other at the same time.

“So it begins,” the Knight said dryly.

“Aye.”

…

The screams of men being burned alive was more than Sandor could bear. Unlike the Battle of the Blackwater he knew to expect it this time and had steeled himself for the moment the ships would burst into green flame, but it wasn’t enough. Luckily the cheers of the soldiers around him began to drown out the more distant wails of the Unsullied. Bronn and Tyrion had timed it as well as possible – waiting until as many ships as possible were in the inlet but few had made landfall.

When Sandor finally turned back around to face the water, he could see ten ships had reached land, and about a dozen were far enough out to sea to not be touched by the flames. One hundred ships sailed to Casterly Rock, the soldiers on only twenty-two were spared the fire. The Unsullied who had made landfall were obviously disoriented and had momentarily forgotten their formations until one of them – the apparent leader – ordered them to move forward with their goal of scaling the cliffs and walls, even outnumbered as they were.

Just when they felt confident in their victory the dreaded beasts appeared. They flew high overhead, out of range of even the largest weapons. Daenerys seemed to be surveying the wreckage that was once her fleet. Despite his involuntary sympathy for the men who’d just met a fiery end, Sandor took pleasure in imagining the Dragon Queen’s sadness.

_Got a taste of your own medicine… bitter stuff, isn’t it?_

Her shock, however, was momentary. The two dragons flew so high in the sky they looked as small as birds, and that’s when Sandor realized killing the beasts would not be so easy. They would not fly at the Rock horizontally; they would dive down from above. Men started to panic, and Sandor heard the shouts of the other Commanders telling their men to hold position, as he did the same. Archers pointed their arrows to the sky but waited.

Now time was suddenly going slowly, and the noises around him began to sound distant, muffled. The battle was here, and so was the Hound. With no Unsullied yet in view, Sandor sheathed his sword and manned the nearest ballistae. Beric helped him to tilt the weapon as high up as possible, but it wasn’t enough. They would have to wait until the dragons were lower, and until then they were nothing but sitting ducks.

The seconds ticked by and then seemingly out of nowhere the smaller, green dragon – Rhaegal – was expelling fire along one of the lower tiers. Sandor didn’t take his eyes of the sky directly above him even though he could hear the sound of men – this time _their_ men – shouting, screaming, and running.

The dragon flew out to sea again – out of the range of their weapons before reappearing a minute later to blast another section of wall and retreating again. It repeated this several times – it seemed the dragon could not breathe a steady stream of fire – it needed time between bursts. It continued to attack them from different angles and heights. The archers’ arrows didn’t even penetrate the beast’s scales.

Just when he’d all but forgotten about the larger dragon – the one ridden by Daenerys – he heard and felt a whoosh and looked overhead just in time to see it diving toward the center of the tower bridge. Everyone on the bridge ran or dove to either side just seconds before the dragon was upon them. Two archers were caught by the fire and threw themselves off the bridge, choosing a quick and painless death.

In the melee, Sansa, Val, Ghost, and three archers were on one side of the bridge while Theon, Ghost, and the seven other archers were on the other end. No one seemed willing to venture back toward the center. Staying close to either tower, everyone notched their arrows and waited for the dragon’s next descent. They would not aim for the dragon; they would aim for the rider.

Suddenly Sandor was tumbling down a flight of stone stairs. When he reached the lower platform, he looked up to see Beric panting beside him. Sandor had been so focused on what was happening on the bridge that he would have been burnt alive had it not been for Beric throwing both of them down the stairs as Rhaegal attacked their section of the wall.

“Pay attention man, you can do nothing for her other than stay alive!” Beric spit the words. Sandor nodded and returned his attention to his own fight. The Unsullied had breached the lowest tier of the wall where Rhaegal had killed many of the northern soldiers with fire.

Sandor whistled and within seconds his dogs were at his side, having come from the alcove where Sandor commanded them to stay. They’d be no use against a dragon, but against lightly armored Unsullied soldiers…

Sandor pointed to the Unsullied below, “FASS!!” he bellowed. The agile canines jumped from wall to wall and in under a minute were at the lowest tier. With Northmen attacking high and dogs attacking low, short work was being made of the Essosi soldiers.

_Good riddance._

Sandor looked for the nearest ballista that hadn’t been destroyed and ordered Beric and five archers to follow him to it. He saw the dragon approaching from their far left. Pivoting the weapon he waited for the dragon to get closer before firing. The large arrow lodged in the flesh of the dragon’s back right leg but didn’t penetrate deeply enough to do much damage. The beast squealed and snapped its head, clearly looking for the source of the arrow – and finding it.

_Fuck!_

\----------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

Tywin had no idea what was occurring on the ocean side of the castle other than the Northmen were keeping the dragons occupied. He was gladdened by this, as the Dothraki proved to be formidable fighters and more than lived up to their reputation for brutality. Their strength was in their numbers, fearlessness, and savagery. It was no wonder they tore through much of the South and West easily, but they had not yet seen a challenge comparable to the fortress of Casterly Rock and its well organized and armored soldiers.

He occasionally heard dragon shrieks, so he knew they were still alive. Tywin wondered if that meant Sansa was still alive but had little time to think about it as the Dothraki continued their onslaught. The Lannister forces had the numbers advantage but every Dothraki warrior was on a horse whereas only one-third Tywin’s soldiers were mounted. The foot soldiers were falling easily. The greatest defense Tywin had at the moment was the archers atop the ramparts who could easily pick off the un-armored Dothraki. Still the savages were tough – Tywin saw some men fighting with as many as four arrows sticking out of their limbs and torsos.

Tywin begrudgingly thanked the Gods he didn’t believe in for Petyr Baelish. His heavily armored knights and steeds were the best suited to engage the Dothraki in man-to-man combat. They were successfully defending the flanks, but the center was weak. Tywin shouted to one of his commanders, Ser Addam Marbrand, to reinforce the center and the man did not hesitate to comply.

_Good old Addam – never afraid to go where the fighting is thickest._

Tywin was momentarily distracted by the ear-piercing scream of the large black dragon, which was attacking the tower bridge where Sansa was positioned. Tywin couldn’t watch what was unfolding above him as he heard the clamor of galloping horses. He turned to see a column of Dothraki men ten- wide had broken through the infantry’s shield wall and was headed straight for Tywin’s battalion who, along with some Tully soldiers, were the last line of defense holding the bridge that led into the Rock. Tywin drew his sword. His warhorse, Thunder – named for the sound one heard from within the caves of the rock where waves crashed against the outside, began snorting and pawing at the ground. The animal was ready for a fight even if its master wasn’t.

_At least it’s an honorable way to die._

For a brief moment Tywin thought of his son Jaime. _Will my death be the thing that finally impels him to claim his birthright?_

But when the sound of hooves behind him pulled his attention he turned momentarily and saw not his eldest son but his youngest, along with his sellsword Bronn and a dozen archers come to lend their help to hold the bridge. Tyrion and Bronn led their horses through the throng of soldiers to flank Tywin, while the archers remained at the back and began firing over Tywin’s men at the column of horse warriors.

Tywin met his son’s eyes and nodded slightly before closing his visor.

For only the second time in his life the pride Tywin felt was not directed at Jaime or Cersei, but at his deformed drunk of a son. The dwarf held a battle axe in one hand and a shield in the other.

_Two Lannisters will die honorably today._

\------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa and Val stood inside the tower with three archers and one direwolf. All of them fired as quickly as possible, but the Queen on her dragon was an evasive target. As the pair descended for another attack, the dragon took aim at the entrance to the tower Sansa was in. Diving down the spiral stairs Sansa’s group just missed being incinerated as they could feel and see the fire above them.

_Think of something, think, think!_

Despite her own prodding Sansa could think of no solution.

_I’m failing them. I said I’d figure out how to kill the Dragon Queen, and I’m sitting here in a tower as men all around me die… my men, Lannister men, Tully men, Vale men…_

_It’s just like the Long Night… I’m utterly useless here. All I’m doing is keeping her occupied, but it won’t last forever._

Suddenly dust and small pieces of stone were falling down and it sounded like boulders were being hurled at the tower… only Sansa quickly realized catapults weren’t the source of the attack – Daenerys’ dragon had landed on top of the tower. The massive beast was trying to cave in the domed roof.

_She means to crush us or bury us alive._

Without thinking Sansa ran out of the tower and toward the bridge. She would not let Val and the others meet such a death. Her plan worked as the dragon turned its attention to Sansa and the wolf at her side. They sprinted to the other tower and didn’t stop once inside. “Stairs!” she yelled. Theon and the archers followed her and Ghost to the staircase, but two of the archers didn’t make it out of the path of dragon fire in time. The dragon then perched on the roof of that tower, and without waiting for the heat of the flames to leave the top room of the tower Sansa ran up the stairs and straight across the bridge once more.

She made it inside the opposite tower and dove down the stairs just in time, landing hard on her hip.

Recognizing the pattern, Daenerys landed Drogon on the bridge and within a minute it collapsed, leaving only a few feet of stone walkway jutting out from each tower.

_Well all I’ve done is buy us a bit more time._

The dragon again perched atop Sansa’s tower, but suddenly the beast shrieked. Looking across to the other tower Theon was holding his bow triumphantly.

_He must have hit Daenerys!_

But the strike must not have been fatal, as the dragon dove off the roof and immediately took aim at the entrance to Theon’s tower. The beast hovered in the air between the two towers, blasting fire at the man who’d just harmed his mother. 

_Theon!_

Sansa heard the scream she knew too well and saw a man engulfed in flames jump to his death.

“No!” Sansa was running across the room while drawing her shortsword. With no thought in her mind other than ice cold fury she ran full speed down what was left of the walkway and jumped.

\---------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Beric and one of the archers reloaded the ballista – a process that was fairly cumbersome. The angry beast was flying straight toward the man who’d just injured it. Sandor held the ballista, his three fingers hovering just over the massive trigger.

Finally loaded, Beric and the others dove out of the way, but Sandor held his ground, waiting for his moment – waiting for _the_ moment the dragon would expose itself. He’d have one shot and missing his target would likely mean his death. Death by fire – the one way he was unwilling to die. He heard a loud cracking sound coming from the direction of the twin towers but did not let himself look. If Sansa was dead, he would join her, one way or another.

“Sandor, fire!” Beric was shouting at him, but it was not yet time.

Seconds passed like hours as the beast stared him down. Sixty yards away, fifty, forty… and there it was – his opening, literally. The dragon’s jaws unclenched, its massive mouth opened, ready to exhale fire, but it was Sandor who exhaled, steadied his aim… and squeezed…

The last thing he saw was the stream of fire building in the back of the dragon’s throat. Next thing he knew the creature crashed into the wall just to Sandor’s right. Large stones broke away and tumbled down. Men who’d been standing there had no time to move out of the way. Sandor himself jumped away from the ballista and felt a jolt of pain in his left shoulder where he landed on the stone floor.

He only knew he was successful by the cheers that sounded around him. It was only then that he stood and allowed himself to look at the bridge – or more accurately the space where the bridge used to be. Now in its place was a dragon breathing fire up into one of the towers. Sandor felt sick – was Sansa in that tower? Had she just been burnt alive? He had only a moment to wonder before a flash of black and red flew out of the opposite tower. With two hands wrapped around her shortsword’s pommel, she jumped off the broken walkway.

_No!_

A second later her body hit the dragon’s back hard, but she did not fall – her sword was buried in the beast and she clung to it for life. The dragon shrieked and turned its head to see the source of its pain. Whether by Daenerys’ command or its own volition the dragon flew up into the sky while spinning.

_She’s going to fall!_

Drogon ascended so quickly Sandor could no longer see what was happening. He just stared, unable to wrench his eyes away, waiting to see the little bird’s body plummet to the earth.

\------------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

For what felt like minutes but was probably only seconds Sansa held on for dear life, one hand clutching her sword, the other clutching a spine on the dragon’s back. They were spinning so much that Sansa lost all sense of north, south, east, or west. She only knew up and down by the pull of gravity calling her down to the ground. Daenerys shouted some command which caused the dragon to level out and fly steadily. Daenerys was holding onto leather reins but seemed equally disoriented by the dizzying spin.

Sansa yanked out her sword and tried to bury it further up the dragon’s back but with little leverage and only one free hand she couldn’t penetrate its scales. For not the first time in her life she wished she were more like Brienne, or at least Arya. She cursed herself for not training in the yard like men did. As she sheathed her sword and instead dragged herself up the dragon’s body grasping its spines her scrawny arms were already losing their strength. She dared not look down, keeping her eyes fixed on Daenerys who was staring back in terror with an arrow sticking out of her right shoulder.

With some effort Sansa was able to pull herself into a seated position, still holding onto the dragon for dear life. Daenerys drew a jagged dagger from her belt but held it awkwardly. _Good._

Sansa inched toward her, not yet pulling out one of her own daggers. As she was just over an arm’s length away, Daenerys shouted another command and the dragon again angled itself up toward the sky. Daenerys grabbed the reins with both hands and Sansa did the only thing she could to avoid falling off – she dove forward and wrapped her arms around Daenerys’ body.

_If I fall, you’re coming with me._

With another command the dragon leveled, and Daenerys slashed at Sansa’s arm but didn’t penetrate the leather vambrace. Sansa threw her left arm around both of Daenerys’ and finally drew her own dagger from behind her back – one of the twin blades gifted to her by Tywin Lannister.

Picturing Theon’s burning body plummeting to its death, Sansa drew the dagger across Daenerys’ throat, holding her close and whispering in her ear, “This is too merciful for you.”

The Dragon Queen instinctively clutched at her throat, dropping the reins, entirely. With little effort Sansa sheathed her dagger, grabbed the reins and kicked Daenerys off the dragon, a look of shock still painting the woman’s face.

Sansa felt a swell of accomplishment before realizing the hardest part had yet to come. Drogon screamed in what could only be described as a dragon’s version of a grieving wail. He began spinning erratically again and Sansa was able to see they were still above land. She held the reins tightly, pressing her chest against the dragon’s neck and squeezing her eyes shut. There was nothing she could do; she was at the beast’s mercy. After what felt like an eternity the dragon leveled out and from the force of the wind blowing in her face Sansa could tell he was flying very fast. She chanced a glance down once her head stopped swirling and saw they were over water.

_He’s flying out to sea. Fuck._

Sansa could see land to her right, so she knew the dragon was headed northwest out to sea. With every passing second, she got further from land.

_I need to jump. Again._

Sansa had no idea of whether a fall from this height into water would kill her on impact, but she knew she had no choice. Should the dragon make landfall it would kill her instantly. Should it fly further out to sea she would have no chance of swimming back to shore.

She steeled herself, released the reins, and let herself tumble ungracefully over the side of the dragon.

\------------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Every man on the ocean side – Northerner and Unsullied alike, had stopped fighting. They all faced upward, holding their breath as they watched in fear that their queen would come falling out of the sky.

And then he saw it… like a goose struck by an arrow, the limp body of Daenerys Targaryen fell from the sky. Sandor couldn’t see where it landed and did not care. She was dead. The Northmen cheered, while the Unsullied dropped to their knees in anguish and surrender.

The dragon screamed out a pitiful wail, and moments later it was headed back down to where they all stood on the western walls of Casterly Rock. The red belly of the beast passed overhead, too close for comfort, then flew out to sea. From his vantage point he couldn’t tell whether Sansa was still on it, but he had to believe she was. Sandor’s eyes followed the dragon as it got smaller and smaller in the distance.

He was aware that the soldiers around him were assembling and heading toward the courtyard. Jaime was leading them, while the soldiers on the lower tiers disarmed the surviving Unsullied. Sandor saw all this in his periphery, his eyes remained fixed on the dragon flying over the sea.

Rage built in his chest, rage at the Dragon Queen, rage at the dragons, rage at the Unsullied, the Dothraki, the Lannisters… rage at himself, rage at everyone and everything. Rage at the sky and the sea, rage at fire and water.

Seeing nothing but red he fell in behind the other soldiers. He could not feel his feet walking across the courtyard, he could not feel the weight of his sword in his hand. A gate opened, and they passed through it. They surged ahead onto the wide bridge that led out of Casterly Rock. The Dothraki had managed to push their way halfway down the bridge, the Lannisters and Tullys were desperately fighting to hold them back. Sandor forced his way through the men and to the front lines, swinging up onto a stallion that had lost its owner. He charged ahead without thinking. His sword slashed through the naked chest of a Dothraki warrior, then the neck of another, the arm of another… Blood splattered wherever he went. He felt something slash at his side but ignored it until he noticed Bronn cutting through the attacker.

“You trying to die, ya big fucker?!” the sellsword shouted.

_Mayhap I am, but I’m taking a hundred of these fucking savages with me._

But with the northern forces joined in the fight the Dothraki were being pushed back swiftly. They were now off the bridge. Tywin Lannister was shouting some commands, and his men were pursuing the Dothraki as they tried to reform ranks on the main battlefield.

Sandor was now on the battlefield as well, and finally took inventory of his surroundings. The Dothraki were surrounded on all sides by Lannister, Tully, Vale, and now Northern armies. The horse warriors were putting up a respectable fight, but the odds were now against them. They would not surrender, it appeared.

_Good, more killing for me._

The battle lasted well into the night. The Dothraki continued fighting fiercely, and the Lannister allies continued to sustain losses, but with every passing hour there were fewer and fewer Dothraki.

They could now afford to rotate men in and out so that each could rest ten minutes for every ten minutes of fighting – the Dothraki could not afford to do the same. Sandor could barely lift his sword, and he wasn’t alone. At this point the archers were doing most of the work, picking off the Dothraki from the battlements.

The moon rose and fell but the fighting continued. The sun was nearly at its apex when there were no more than a thousand Dothraki surrounded by tens of thousands of their enemy. Still they did not yield. Those too tired to raise their swords stumbled into the nearest soldier and let themselves be butchered. Sandor had never seen anything like it. They chose death over dishonor. At midday the last Dothraki was felled, by Twin Lannister himself in an intentionally symbolic gesture.

The surviving men collapsed where they stood, no energy to walk into the castle grounds. Sandor was no exception. He dropped to his knees, too tired to worry over the fate of his comrades or even his queen.

…

The sun was sinking when Sandor awoke to the ugly face of Brienne of Tarth. “He’s alive,” she said, nonchalantly.

“Unfortunately,” he mumbled, as the pain from so many cuts and bruises became apparent all at once.

She lent an arm to help him sit up, “Pull yourself together, man. You’re using a corpse as a pillow.”

“Fuck if I care… have you been up this entire time?”

She shook her head, “I slept for an hour or so… I wasn’t in the thick of it like you were. I helped to disarm and secure the Unsullied.”

Memories flooded to the forefront of his mind, “Sansa?”

Brienne looked somber, “Hasn’t been found yet – alive or otherwise.”

He swallowed the grief that threatened, “The dragon bitch?”

“She was found – definitely not alive. Her throat had been slit, but there isn’t much left of her to see.”

“I want to see it anyway.”

“Get in line.”

“What of our men?”

“You mean the Northerners?”

“No, I mean _us_. The people I give a shit about.”

Brienne sighed, “Not too bad, all considering.”

“Who?”

“Theon and…”

“And who?”

“Tyrion and Thoros were injured rather severely, but the maesters said they will survive. One of your dogs was killed, and another had to be put down. The others are in pretty good shape.”

“Who?!” he shouted.

Brienne turned away, “Ser Beric.”

Sandor stared at the bloodied grass in front of him, “Oh.”

Then a realization hit him, “But if Thoros lives, he can heal Beric! He’s done it before, as easily as snapping a finger.”

Brienne looked at Sandor sympathetically, “Clegane, Thoros is unconscious and Beric was… well, he was crushed… where the dragon crashed into the wall.

“Oh,” Sandor said again. Beric was dead because Sandor shot the beast. Beric, who earlier in the day had saved Sandor from a fiery death was dead. Because Sandor killed the dragon. The dragon crushed Beric. Who had saved Sandor. Who killed the dragon. The maddening thoughts looped over and over again in Sandor’s mind, but he vanquished them. He could mourn his friend later.

_My friend…_

Brienne and Sandor were silent for at least a minute before Sandor stood with Brienne’s assistance, “What’s being done to search for Sansa?”

“Tywin ordered a search party to move north along the coast. They’re all spreading word to the few villagers remaining to be on the lookout for a red-haired woman, to lend their aid if they find her.”

“Right, I need to get to my horse.”

“You’re in no condition to go out looking for her!”

“You going to stop me?”

Brienne eyed him a moment, “In the shape you’re in, I easily can... but no, I won’t stop you. I also won’t let you go alone. And at least wrap your worst wounds first.”

He mumbled his agreement, and two hours later Brienne, Tormund, and Sandor set off on horseback to look for the little bird.

_Wherever you are, little bird, hang on. I’m coming for you._


	88. Bounty

**Sansa**

Sansa awoke to someone shaking her shoulder gently, “Girl… wake up girl.”

“Sandor?” she mumbled through a mouthful of sand.

She spit and coughed but managed to sit up onto her knees. She blinked her eyes which were stinging. The sky was dark, she must have been sleeping for at least a couple hours, though she truly had no sense of what time it was when she’d jumped into the ocean. Her ribs hurt when she breathed. Two men knelt in front of her, one held an arm to her shoulder to steady her.

“You’re alright, girl.”

“Where am I?”

“Faircastle.”

The word sounded familiar, but her brain was foggy, “Where is that?”

“An island north of Casterly Rock, due west of Ashemark.”

She nodded and looked around her. The men had large barrels of fish sitting on the ground next to them, a young boy stood behind them, seemingly wary of Sansa, “You’re fisherman?”

“Aye. What’s your name, girl?”

“You have a boat I presume?”

“Aye, we were about to head back to the mainland. What happened, how did you wash up here?”

“The battle! Do you know if it’s over? What time is it anyway?”

“It’s nearly morning, we come out here two hours before dawn to check our nets, that’s when we found you.”

“What of the battle? Did you hear anything?” she grabbed the closer man by his shirt, pleading desperately.

The men exchanged a look before the older one answered, “Last we heard the Lannister forces were winning.”

She breathed a sigh of relief, “You’ll take me back to the mainland then?”

“Of course, my lady. What’s your name?”

“I’m Sansa Stark – I’m an ally of your Lord Lannister. If you see me back to the castle, I’m sure he will reward you once the battle is over.”

“If he survives,” the younger man said.

“If he has died, I’ll see to it you are paid. Please, I must get back to Casterly Rock – or as close as you’re willing to take me.”

The men exchanged a look again.

“Apologies, my lady. This isn’t personal…”

“Wha—”

…

When Sansa awoke it was pitch dark. For a fleeting moment she thought she had died and returned to the dark place, but quickly her discomfort proved that she was still in the very cruel and cold world. Her hands and feet were bound, and her mouth was gagged. The pungent odor of fish surrounded her. Her body was being jostled around and she heard men’s voices. She tried to shout but it was a futile effort with the gag in her mouth.

After what felt like hours the motion stopped, and Sansa listened quietly. The voices got closer. The lid to whatever crate or box she was in was lifted away and Sansa could tell by the color of the sky that it was early evening. 

The older of the fishermen looked in, holding one of her daggers where she could see it.

“Time to rest for a while girl. You give us no problems we’ll not harm you, understood?”

Sansa nodded.

“But if you scream, or kick, or bite, or try to run or fight in any way, I’m going to cut off one of your pretty little fingers.”

She nodded again, and the man helped her up and out of the crate and then off the cart.

Looking around Sansa recognized they were on the Goldroad – or more accurately, pulled off to one side near a cluster of trees.

The younger man reached for her gag, “Remember, no screaming or yelling.”

After pulling down the cloth he poured some water into her mouth.

“You hungry, or need to relieve yourself?”

She nodded again, not sure if talking was permitted.

“Which one?”

“Both.”

He untied her feet and led her into the woods but instead of untying her hands so she could tend to her needs he pressed her against a tree and started unlacing her breeches.

“No!”

“Relax, I told you we’ll not hurt you unless you give us reason.”

She argued but he was insistent, “With all due respect, m’lady, I don’t believe you. I’m not about to untie a woman who’s murdered countless men to save her a bit of embarrassment. I’m sorry, but I won’t do that.”

After her needs were tended, he led her to where the other man had set up camp. He re-bound her feet and fed her some type of dried fish, a few bites of bread, and then gave her more water.

After eating they sat in silence. The men mostly avoided her eyes, instead speaking to one another.

She learned that the younger man’s name was Andy, the elder was Gerry.

“May I ask where you are taking me?”

“Suppose there’s no harm in telling you, you could probably figure it out based on our direction, anyway. We’re taking you to King’s Landing.”

Sansa’s stomach clenched.

“May I ask why?”

“Nice bounty on your head, m’lady. 100,000 gold dragons alive.”

“And dead?”

“Nothing.”

_Fucking Cersei Lannister._

“You do realize you need to make it all the way to King’s Landing to claim that bounty? Why not return to Casterly Rock – Lord Tywin will beat that bounty to see me returned safely.” Sansa wasn’t sure he would spare such a large amount, but she had to try.

“If he’s still alive, he probably would have, but not after we knocked you over the head and tied you up. No, m’lady… no turning back for us now.”

“And you trust that whoever meets you in King’s Landing won’t simply take your heads, surely your lives are worth less to them than 100,000 gold dragons.”

“Queen Cersei is a Lannister – Lannisters always pay their debts. Our friend has ridden ahead by horse, so they’ll be expecting us.”

“Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion are my friends, they are sworn to me – if your fear is that Lord Tywin is dead, I can assure you either of his sons will double what the Queen is offering.”

The men looked at each other, seemingly considering her offer. Eventually Gerry spoke, “Sorry, m’lady… it isn’t personal, truly it’s not, but I don’t know you other than your reputation. Any lady who’d kill her own husbands would have no qualms about killing two men who’d kidnapped her. All the gold in the world will do us no good if we’re dead.”

Sansa would say no more now but estimated she would have nearly a fortnight on the road to earn the men’s trust.

Unfortunately she was given little opportunity to plead her case. They only let her out of the crate in the morning, evening, and at midday. They gave her food and water, took her to the woods to relieve herself, then let her sit with them only as long as she kept quiet. Anytime she tried to speak they gagged her and returned her to the crate. By the third day she had given up hope of being able to reason with her captors.

\----------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Three days had passed since the battle and still there were no signs of Sansa. The search parties continued to comb the western coast north and even south of Casterly Rock. They spoke to villagers asking if anyone had seen a woman with long red hair dressed in black leather armor, but no one had seen her. Most had fled indoors before the Dragon Queen’s armies arrived – many others had fled the area altogether, hiding in the mountains.

Sandor could feel the others giving up hope of finding their Queen alive. He noticed Brienne on more than one occasion wiping tears from her eyes. Sandor had gone out with the hounds and Ghost in hopes they’d be able to pick up her scent. The only time they seemed to react was at a fishing hut on the shore north of Casterly Rock, but the woman and boy who came out to greet the party said they’d seen no such woman.

_Perhaps the dogs are reacting to the scent of the fish… it’s a foreign smell for Northern dogs and wolves._

That evening Sandor sat alone in the room he and Sansa had been unofficially sharing. He picked up her mandolin and plucked the strings. Ghost came over and began to whimper, licking his hands.

“You believe she’s still out there, don’t you boy?”

The wolf wagged his tail.

Sandor laid back on the bed and sighed. Not knowing Sansa’s fate was exhausting. Sandor should have been sadder, but he had a strong feeling she was still alive somewhere.

_Or you’re just believing what you wish to be true._

The past few days had been so physically and emotionally exhausting that he no longer knew what to feel. He felt at times edgy and at other times uncharacteristically optimistic. Brienne, who rarely left his side, stared at him wide-eyed when she’d occasionally find him smiling or even laughing.

_You’re going mad, dog._

Truthfully though, Sandor knew the source of his momentary feelings of peace and even joy. He took comfort in knowing that if the little bird was dead, she was in her beloved dark place with her family – with her son. A man of action, Sandor had already planned the rest of his life – which he hoped would be brief – should Sansa be found dead, or never found at all. He would spend two years dedicating his every waking moment to helping the innocent. Fighting for them, feeding them, laboring for them… anything they needed. Then he’d end his life and hope the everyone-and-no-one God would deem him worthy of joining Sansa in eternal afterlife. A couple souls floating around in the dark emptiness, among all the other souls she loved.

_My sister will be there, too. Mayhap my mother._

_And mayhap all the good people you’ve killed…_

Sandor was laughing to himself again, quite uncontrollably, when his door swung open and Jaime himself summoned Sandor to come quickly. He rose and nearly ran out of the room, Ghost in tow.

As they walked through the guest keep and across the courtyard Sandor was silent. If they’d found Sansa alive, Jaime would have told him right away. Finally he mustered the courage to ask, “They’ve found Sansa, then?”

Jaime didn’t look at him as they entered the family keep, “No, not Sansa…”

_What the fuck does that mean?_

The two men and one wolf arrived outside what Sandor knew from years ago to be Lord Tywin’s personal apartments. Brienne was already there, along with half a dozen Lannister guards.

When they were ushered into Tywin’s solar Sandor heard a question being voiced by the Great Lion, “I will ask you _again_ … how did you get into my bedchamber?” He was directing the question at someone with long brown hair who was tied to a chair facing away from the doorway where Sandor stood with Jaime, Brienne, and Ghost. Almost immediately Ghost ran toward the chair.

_Shit!_

Sandor tried to grab the wolf but wasn’t quick enough. He was about to kill the person Tywin was interrogating. But instead the wolf wagged its tail and jumped up on the captive, licking the person’s face.

“Ghost!” a high-pitched voice squealed.

_The little wolf!_

Sandor ran to face her.

“What in seven hells are you doing here, girl?!”

She looked at him, not nearly as surprised to see him as he was to see her.

Tywin answered on her behalf, “She is here to kill me, apparently. Something she almost succeeded in doing!”

“Aye, untie me and there will be no _almost_ about it!”

“You little vermin! You hid right under my nose all those weeks!”

Sandor shook his head, “Can someone please explain what is going on?”

Jaime spoke up, “What my father is referring to is the fact that, while he and his men held Harrenhal during the recent war, Lady Arya here acted as his cupbearer for a time. She of course knew who my father was, but he didn’t know who she was. Less than an hour ago she somehow snuck into my father’s bedchamber and tried to kill him. He recognized her face as his once servant, but it wasn’t until he was about to order his guards to take her to the dungeon that she revealed her true identity.”

Sandor addressed Arya, “What are you doing here, girl? Why are you trying to kill Lord Lannister?”

She shrugged, “He’s on my list.”

Sandor croaked out a laugh, “You still have that bloody list?! Am I still on it?”

She shook her head, “No, but that may change, since I see you serve the Lannisters again.”

“I serve your sister, who is allied with the Lannisters… at the moment, at least.”

“Then I respect you even less! I know all about my sister. At least if you said you served Twin Lannister I’d know it’s out of respect, or for gold… if you serve my sister I know it’s because you’re thinking with your cock… why else would you follow a stupid, selfish girl like her?”

“Watch your tongue, girl! How can you say that about your sister? Do you even know what she’s done, what she’s sacrificed?”

“Hah! Sacrificed? When did Sansa ever have to sacrifice anything? Married into the Lannisters, then to some handsome young Lord in the Vale… then manages to make her way back to Winterfell and dares to name herself queen. I’ve had to fight since the day I left King’s Landing. Men help her because she is pretty and says pretty words. I see Cersei Lannister taught her how to use her cunt to bend men to her will.”

_[Smack!]_

Sandor’s blood was boiling, “You little shit… you know _nothing_ about what your sister has been through. Whatever struggles you’ve had are nothing compared to what she has endured!”

“Oh is that what she told you? She played you, you big oaf! Got you to feel sorry for her so she’d have one of the best swordsmen in the realm by her side.”

Sandor gritted his teeth and turned to Brienne and Jaime, “Will someone please talk some sense into this brat, so I don’t have to beat it into her?”

Brienne stepped forward, “My lady, Clegane is right. Your sister hasn’t fallen into her position by sheer luck or the favors of men. If anything, men have been no friends of your sisters, though I’ll not disgrace her by sharing the details.”

“It doesn’t even matter… maybe she has been through some hardships, I know all about how she is now! She’s not my sister!”

“What do you think you know about your sister, then?” Jaime asked.

“That Queen Daenerys used her dragons to save the North and likely the entire realm from imminent death on the Long Night, and Sansa didn’t so much as thank her – refused to return the favor by supporting Daenerys, then chose not to stay neutral but to ally herself with Daenerys’ enemy. They say it’s what made her go mad.”

“That bitch was already mad, and your sister knew it! And you think Daenerys was the savior that night?” Sandor lowered himself to be eye level and only inches from Arya’s face, “Your sister that you apparently hate so much was the hero. She killed the Night King. She saved the North, and the realm. Daenerys was only there because the Night King had her _beloved_ dragon.”

Arya looked in his eyes, not wanting to believe him.

“Have I ever lied to you, girl?”

She shook her head but was too stubborn to yield, “That makes no sense. How could my sister, my delicate sister, whose only skills were singing and embroidery, kill the Night King?”

“She’s not so delicate as you remember, girl. She had to get tough, just like you. You don’t believe me, ask Ser Brienne, or Ser Jaime… we all saw it with our own eyes. Go North and ask your brother, Jon.”

Brienne spoke again in a pleading tone, “My lady, how did you hear those lies about your sister?”

It was a moment before she answered, “Daenerys.”

Jaime nodded, “Spreading lies to try to discredit Sansa, just as we expected she would.”

“Daenerys told me herself.”

Everyone, including Tywin, looked stunned at Arya’s admission.

“I’ve been with Daenerys the past few months in Essos. I have been in Braavos since parting ways with the Hound. I kept hearing about Daenerys, how she was freeing slaves, breaking the wheel… I admired her from a distance, but when I heard she saved the North and got no thanks for it, I travelled to meet her. I thought she was owed a thanks from at least one Stark. She told me Sansa hated her, saw her as a threat, but that Jon and she had a relationship of mutual respect.”

Brienne was still looking stunned but managed to ask a question, “So you came to Westeros with her armies?” Arya nodded. “And you thought it was alright for her to burn entire castles, cities, and villages to the ground? That’s the woman you chose to follow while hating your own sister?”

“No,” Arya whispered, “She wasn’t like that before… they say she went mad. I parted ways with her somewhere in Dorne and travelled here. I heard Tywin and his two sons were here, thought I could cross a few names off my list… I hid out, waiting until after the battle. I figured the castle would be on high alert before the battle. I decided if the Lannisters survived the battle, I’d kill them.”

Tywin finally spoke again, “And I assume if I should untie you that is precisely what you’d try to do?”

“Yes,” she admitted without hesitation.

“So where is my _heroic_ sister, anyway? Where is your _Queen_ in the North?”

Brienne looked at her curiously, “You haven’t heard?”

Arya shook her head, “I’ve been hiding, like I said.”

Sandor was about to answer but Tywin beat him to it, with a surprising amount of emotion in his normally measured tone, “The _sister_ you despise so much killed the Dragon Queen, saving the realm _once again_. She was last seen on the dragon’s back flying out to sea but has not been found and is very likely dead.”

“Oh,” Arya looked down at her hands.

Everyone was silent, letting the news sink into the stubborn girl’s mind. Eventually Brienne broke the silence, “What will you do with her, Lord Tywin?”

The Great Lion sighed, “Out of respect for her sister, I’ll not have the girl executed for attempted murder, but clearly she cannot be left to her own devices. She will be confined to quarters and heavily guarded but treated as well as befits her station.”

“Until?” Sandor probed.

“Until her sister is found and can talk some sense into her, and if her sister is never found, or found dead, then perhaps she will listen to reason from some other source… perhaps she can join her brother in Winterfell, or he can arrange a marriage for her.”

“Jon is in Winterfell?!” Arya’s eyes looked hopeful

“Aye, your sister left him in charge during her absence. And in case you care, he is a Stark now, Sansa legitimized him and named him her heir before the Long Night.”

Just when Arya was beginning to look swayed to Sansa’s favor she shook her head again, “But none of this changes the fact that Sansa is here… with Tywin Lannister – our family’s greatest enemy. And why Sansa has his two sons in her service, if what Daenerys told me is true.”

Brienne spoke on Jaime’s behalf, “Ser Jaime has committed himself to your sister and the North. He joined me on my quest to find and save her and remains in her service because he respects her deeply.”

“And the Imp?”

“The same, my lady. He was living a comfortable life in Braavos but chose to accompany Jaime and I when we found him there. He also is committed to helping your sister, and the North.”

“When and why were you in Braavos?”

Jaime answered, “Looking for you, my lady. Your sister sent us to look for you there. It was one of her first actions after taking back Winterfell from the Boltons. So you see, she never stopped loving you, even as you very clearly stopped loving her.”

_Good, the girl needs to feel some shame._

“And the Old Lion? What has he done to earn my sister’s loyalty? He is still hand to the wretched Queen Cersei, and I don’t imagine Cersei has any love for my sister?” Arya practically spat the name.

Tywin spoke on his own behalf, “Because your sister is not stupid, as you seem to be by all indications. She was willing to end or at least pause the hostilities between our houses, recognizing Daenerys as the greater threat to the realm and to the North.”

“Aye, little wolf, Daenerys sent assassins to kill your sister after the Long Night. Say what you will about Cersei and Tywin, I won’t even disagree with most of it… but neither has gone that far…. _yet.”_

Arya shook her head, trying to process the new information being shared, and not entirely looking like she trusted it.

Sandor knew Arya needed to hear everything – her sister’s entire story, to be convinced. “Lord Tywin, would you permit Ser Brienne and me some privacy to speak with the girl? I believe there is much _Lady_ Arya still needs to know about what has transpired since she left Westeros.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, but then directed his attention to one of the guards, “Jared, please escort Lady Arya to her quarters. Make sure it is a room with no windows. Clegane may join her there this evening, but with no less than a dozen guards posted outside… and the wolf stays locked up henceforth.”

Tywin then turned to his son, “Jaime, make sure your room and Tyrion’s are heavily guarded.”

Twenty minutes later Sandor and Arya sat at a small table in her small room, sharing a pitcher of Arbor Gold wine. He studied her for some minutes before she could bear the silence no longer, “You’re the one who wanted to talk, Hound… so talk.”

“I’m just deciding where to start.”

“Start where I left you to die, something you’re clearly not very good at.”

“No, little wolf. I think I shall start at the beginning.”

She eyed him, “Beginning of what?”

“Of your sister’s time in King’s Landing, after you fled.”


	89. Lion's Den

**Sansa**

The days began to meld together, so much time did she spend in the dark. Her muscles were stiff, her wrists were raw, and she had sores on her shoulders and hips from laying in the hard crate. They only gave her one blanket to keep warm.

One night after eating she asked Andy – the kinder of the two men – how long it had been.

“Six days, m’lady,” he mumbled.

“Please, will you let me walk tonight, I can’t bear to sit or lay any longer. I promise I won’t run or speak.”

The man nodded hesitantly. He grasped her arm tightly as they walked through the woods together. After a few minutes she tried to speak despite her earlier promise, but he put the gag back in her mouth.

\----------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

“Go on, boy… tell the lord what you seen,” a rotund woman was holding a filthy boy by the wrist ungently. A few minutes earlier she and the boy had been led into Tywin’s solar after a guard reported they arrived at the castle gates claiming to have news of Lady Sansa’s whereabouts.

Tywin summoned Jaime, but his son apparently invited Clegane, Tormund, and Brienne. Tywin begrudgingly let them all enter.

“I’m not talking, don’t care what you do to me!” the boy stomped his foot.

_Petulant little shit…_

Clegane’s eyes went wide when he looked upon the boy, “Lord Lannister, I’ve seen this pair before during the search for Lady Sansa, at a fisherman’s hut.”

The woman nodded, “Aye, and I swear, Ser, at the time I had no knowledge of what the boy is about to tell you, that is, if he don’t want me to skin his hide!” she directed her anger at the boy again.

The boy only stuck his chin out further, crossing his arms defiantly.

“My lady, allow me to take a different approach,” Tywin uttered in frustration, “Boy, what is your name?”

“Lukas, m’lord.”

“Why are you unwilling to tell me whatever you told your…” Tywin looked at the woman.

“Aunt,” the lady answered.

“Your aunt.”

The boy stood his ground admirably but idiotically, “‘Cause I been promised _twenty gold dragons_ if I keep my yap shut.”

“By whom?”

“Can’t tell you, m’lord.”

Tywin reached into a drawer and counted out thirty dragons in front of the boy, whose eyes lit.

“There will be thirty more – sixty total – if what you say is worth my time.”

The boy grinned, “Oh, it is, m’lord… you best start counting now.”

Clegane was impatient, “Speak boy!”

“Alright, alright. Your red-haired lady washed ashore. The men I work for found her.”

“When? Where?” Clegane shouted, gripping the boy by his shirt.

The boy looked frightened, “Six days back, Ser. At Faircastle.”

“Where is she now?!”

“They took her, Ser, m’lord…” the boy looked between both men.

“ _Who_ took her, boy?” Tywin asked.

“The men I work for, pair of fishermen.”

“ _Where_ did they take her?” Clegane growled.

“To the Queen, Ser. Bounty on her head, they said. They’ll be back for me in a moon they said. If I’ve kept my mouth shut, I’ll get the gold.”

Clegane now directed his rage at Tywin, “Your daughter put a bounty on Sansa’s head, and you didn’t say anything about it!”

Tywin would not be intimidated by his former retainer, “I knew nothing of such a bounty!”

The woman spoke again, “If I may, Ser, m’lord. We heard tell of it the morning of your battle. Men come and spread the word like wildfire: 100,000 gold dragons for the red-haired lady, only if alive.”

Jaime spoke, “Cersei must have had men planted here to spread word only the day of the battle, knowing we’d be too preoccupied to do hear or do anything about it.”

The boy told the rest of his story – how the men clubbed Sansa, bound her, and hid her in a cart hauling dried and salted fish. They said they’d travel by the Goldroad to King’s Landing.

Clegane spoke again, “What are we waiting for? They’re traveling by wagon; we can catch them before they get to the capital.”

“I’m afraid not, Clegane,” Jaime said, his disappointment obvious, “perhaps if they were three days ahead of us, but not six…”

“Fine, then we march all our armies to King’s Landing and demand her release. If there is any bit if brain left in your daughter’s skull, she’ll release Sansa rather than wage a war. Send a raven to your daughter, tell her not to do anything stupid until you get there.”

Tywin said something he thought he’d never voice out loud, “I’m afraid you think too highly of my daughter. I fear whatever bit of logic or rationality she once possessed is long gone.”

Jaime and Sandor looked at each other in shock. “Father, Lady Sansa came to your aid, will you not do the same?”

Tywin thought about his next move… his rash daughter was unknowingly forcing his hand, forcing him to reveal his loyalties before he was prepared. It would not be the first time he had to improvise, though it angered him when his painstaking efforts at planning failed to pay off thanks to some unexpected turn of events.

“I have no intention of abandoning your Queen, but this situation is complicated,” he pressed his fingers together. “We will depart immediately – the three of us and a retinue of guards. We will travel swiftly. The Northern Lords, Lord Tully, and Lord Baelish will follow behind us with their respective armies, but the Lannister armies _must not follow_. If Cersei sees Western armies, she will assume I’ve betrayed her. Right now, Lady Sansa’s survival hinges upon my ability to reason with my daughter.”

“Aye, that your plan? Sounds to me you’re trying to lay a trap to lead all our men to King’s Landing so they can be massacred by the Crown’s armies, while yours stay safe at the Rock,” Clegane accused.

“The North, the Riverlands, and the Vale have a larger combined force than Cersei has. You should know that; most of her army was comprised of Lannister men who are now _here._ Before that it was Baratheon and Tyrell men. The Baratheons fled to join either Stannis or Renly, as you well know… and the Tyrell men left after Queen Margaery died,” Tywin stated as if all these facts should be obvious.

“Aye, Cersei may not have many men, but what is to stop _your_ men from following our armies to the capital and slaughtering us once we’re trapped between the two?”

“Nothing except the fact that I do _not_ wish to kill all my allies,” Tywin stated emphatically.

“Even if it means going against your own daughter? You think me a fool?”

“I’m not going against her. I’ll merely be advising her, as her Hand is supposed to do, that exacting her vengeance on the northern queen would be most unwise.”

Jaime turned to Sandor, “I know what it looks like Clegane, but Tyrion and I have told you before, my father does not repay loyalty with betrayal. You either trust him now, or take your chances storming into the capital yourself to rescue your queen. Either way, I’m with you, but you must know in the latter scenario the odds are not good. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re rather a conspicuous pair.”

Sandor relented, “Fine, but if I even _think_ you’re betraying us, you’ll be the first one I kill, old man.”

Tywin returned the man’s fierce stare, “I’d expect nothing less from you, Hound.”

\----------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

The next days were the same as the preceding ones. By the eleventh day Sansa felt she was going insane with so little stimulus. She began regretting this sentiment, however, when she heard the sound of horses approaching from the east.

The cart came to a stop and she heard men speaking – Andy, Gerry, and new voices. After a few minutes Andy opened the crate and helped her out.

After her eyes adjusted to the brightness of the midday sun, they fell upon a face she’d hoped never to see again: Boros Blount. Her eyes widened and the pitiful excuse for a _Knight_ laughed wickedly, “Not happy to see your old friend, eh?”

With Blount were a dozen mounted guards of the City Watch, Sansa recognized them by their cloaks. Blount was the only member of the Queensguard present. Another man who looked like a peasant was with them but he soon joined Gerry and Andy.

The rope at Sansa’s ankles was cut. The rope at her wrists was cut, too, but only long enough to re-bind her hands in front of her instead of behind her back as they’d been. Sansa saw two of the guards hoist a heavy chest into the fishermen’s cart. _The price of my life._ Gerry handed them back a box, “Gift for Queen Cersei, these were the weapons on the wolf when we found her.”

_My daggers! My sword!_ Sansa had thought she’d lost them in the ocean, though they’d do her little good now.

Blount draped a cloak over her shoulders, pulling the hood up to cover her hair, then lifted Sansa onto his own horse, a large courser. He mounted behind her, too close for comfort.

Andy met her eyes a moment before Boros turned his horse around, and her new captors began trotting east along the Goldroad. Sansa noticed that Andy and Gerry did not turn their cart around to head back west but instead continued east.

_Smart enough not to return to the Westerlands._

…

At nightfall they made camp. The guards were quiet and avoided Sansa’s eyes, but Blount made up for their silence, “Queen said I could fuck you. Too bad you smell like fish and shit.”

“Too bad,” Sansa replied sarcastically.

_[Smack!]_

Blount hit her hard on the cheek, causing the guards to jump in surprise.

“You’ve forgotten your place, girl. Calling yourself Queen of that frozen wasteland no one gives a shit about has made you cocky. Seems we need to remind you you’re nothing but a traitorous whore. Got the _real_ Queen’s brothers at your side, the Hound… you fucking all of them girl, or just the Kingslayer?”

Sansa remained silent but that seemed to anger him even more than her words.

_[Smack!]_

“Hmm? Tell you what girl… you let us know just how sweet that cunny is, might be we’ll think the Lannister boys have the right idea. Might be we’ll join your side.”

She didn’t say a word, but some of the guards looked up, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation.

“You gone mute, girl? You used to have plenty to say, begging Joffrey not to hurt you, swearing you loved him and wanted to please him. Come on girl, let me hear you beg again,” his vile face was only inches from Sansa’s. She thought back to all the times he had beaten her on Joffrey’s orders. Blount and Trant were the two Kingsguards who seemed to truly enjoy the act rather than do it out of fear of angering Joffrey. Sansa could no longer hold back her rage at being reminded of how helpless she once was. Taking him completely off-guard she headbutted him.

“Ahh! Fucking bitch!” Blount held his nose, which was clearly broken, as blood poured down his mouth and chin. “You’ll fucking pay for that, girl!”

“I’m sure I will,” she muttered into the darkness.

…

At midday the next day King’s Landing came into view in the distance. Sansa felt sick at the idea of going back here.

Blount dismounted and pulled her roughly off the horse, dropping her to the ground. He pulled off her boots and socks.

“You’re walking the rest of the way, girl," he tied her hands to his horse’s saddle with a length of rope and they continued their march. After an hour each step was agony, the small pebbles and rocks on the road cutting into Sansa’s feet, but it was another hour before they entered King’s Landing through the Gate of the Gods, where they were met by more guards – another two dozen at least.

Immediately upon entering the smallfolk looked their way. Sansa was marched southeast along the main road she knew headed directly to the Red Keep. The faces she met looked angry.

_Gods only know what they’ve been told about me._

But Sansa soon realized their rage was directed not at her but at the guards as she heard occasional whispers as she passed, “Wolf Queen,” they said, with not vile but respect in their voice.

“Lady Sansa!” some shouted, and whenever she turned, she was met by a solemn face and a raised fist. “Red Wolf!”, “Last Wolf!” “Stark!” The people’s praise got bolder, and the guards looked at each other warily, clearly expecting a riot.

By the time they approached the square just outside the Red Keep, people were hurling rocks and mud at the guards. Occasionally a few guards would break off from the procession to beat back the assailants. Sansa didn’t want to see people hurt for her. She shouted as loudly as she could, “Do not risk your lives for me, please stop! Stop!” Her words had the unintended consequence of further exciting the crowd, and the guards picked up their pace. Sansa could barely keep up on her bloodied feet.

They reached the gate and Sansa was led through Traitor’s Walk, where years ago her father’s head was put on a spike for all to see. _Soon my head will be there._

By the time they reached the throne room Sansa was practically being dragged. Blount led his horse right into the large room, spectators parting for him.

“Your grace, may I present to you Lady Sansa Stark, the traitor who calls herself Queen in the North.”

Sansa was untied from the horse and forced to kneel at the bottom of the steps. Cersei rose with all the poise Sansa remembered, though her hair was now close-cropped, and she wore all black. Behind her stood a heavily armored man – the tallest and widest man Sansa had ever seen, though she could not make out his face under his helm. Off to the side was a man with a patch over one eye, the other wide open and crazed. He was eyeing Sansa like a cat eyes a mouse, with a devious grin ruining what could have been a handsome face. His vest bore the squid of House Greyjoy.

_Euron Greyjoy… no wonder he didn’t answer Tywin’s call, he’d already made a deal with Cersei._

Cersei stared at Sansa with nothing but fury in her eyes but kept her tone cool as she spoke loud enough for all to hear, “I assume you know why you’re here, Lady Stark.”

Sansa ignored her and turned to face Euron, “Lord Greyjoy, you’ll be _proud_ to know your nephew was crucial in our victory over the mad Targaryen queen. Your kin helped save the realm.”

Cersei glowered, clearly knowing what Sansa was doing, but Euron was less intelligent, “Ah, I’ll have to congratulate little Theon next time I see him.”

“That won’t be possible, Lord Greyjoy. He perished after his act of heroism, as did many other good men of the North, the West, the Riverlands, and the Vale who united to defeat the enemy of the realm.”

“Enough!” Cersei spat, “We’re not hear to listen to _lies_ about your heroics. Everyone knows you’re nothing but a traitor, trying to align yourself with House Lannister to drive a wedge within my family.”

“It was House Lannister who called _me,_ your grace. As everyone knows, I’ve been content to stay in the North and avoid any and all confrontations, except those that threaten my people and lands.”

“Silence! I asked you a question you’ve yet to answer. Do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes, because you are a hateful, vengeful, short-sighted bitch.”

The crowd gasped in unison but Cersei maintained her cool demeanor, “You’re the only one who sounds hateful right now, Lady Stark; do not try to win the favor of the members of court, they’re too smart to fall for your tricks.”

“Of course, your grace, you are right, I am feeling rather hateful. Being kidnapped, transported in a crate for nearly a fortnight, and made to march barefoot for miles has me in a rather sour mood. I hope you and the court can forgive my lapse in decorum.”

Cersei ignored her, “You are _here_ , Lady Stark, to answer for your crimes against the realm. They include treason, murder, and regicide.” She turned her head to Blount, “Ser Boros, please escort Lady Stark to her quarters. She is clearly in need of rest and, dare I say it, a bath. Have Maester Pycelle look in on her.” Turning back to Sansa, she continued, “I will give you a few days to reflect on the choices which led you here. When you are ready to confess your crimes, the court will be ready to hear you.”

…

Sansa’s “quarters” were a cell in the dungeons. It was pitch dark, and Sansa finally appreciated why they were called the Black Cells. She was shoved in roughly. One foot was promptly chained to the wall, though the chain was long enough that she could stand and even walk around if her feet weren’t far too sore to do either.

She was also given the promised bath when three guards came in, stripped her naked, and threw buckets of ice-cold water on her. They then tossed in a roughspun, short-sleeved dress and a bowl of turnips in cold broth. Sansa dressed and ate. She knew her men would not abandon her, and she must keep up her strength through whatever came next. She must stay alive and keep her wits about her.

She was surprised when the maester, a slight man who introduced himself as Qyburn, entered with two guards. He cleaned her feet and applied a salve before wrapping them.

“I encourage you to stay off your feet as much as possibly, my lady,” the maester said, not unkindly.

“Thank you, Maester Qyburn.”

“I’ll be back in the morning to check on you.”

“Is it evening now, maester?”

He looked at her but did not answer. He and the guards left, taking the light with them.

It didn’t take long for Sansa to wish she was back in the fishermen’s crate. At least there she heard noises, voices. She knew the approximate time, since they let her out each morning, noon, and evening. Here there was nothing but some distant cries and pleas of other prisoners. It was cold, dark, and hard. It stank of death and excrement. Sansa wondered if this was the same cell her father had been held in. It was only a few years ago and yet it felt like another lifetime. Surely it was a different Sansa who lived through those dark days, who stood crying and begging when they took her father’s head. Sansa today would have grabbed Joffrey’s virgin sword from his belt and put it through Ilyn Payne’s back before cutting her father’s binds. Would the Hound have helped them escape? Would they all have died for their efforts? Would the sight of a pretty young girl being slain have inspired the crowd to turn on the Baratheons?

Sansa spiraled in and out of painful memories and what-ifs. What if she had killed Joffrey that day that Sandor stopped her? Would it have led to Robb being triumphant in the war? Or would everything be the same except the Boltons would still hold the North? She knew looking backward was useless, but where else could she look now that the future seemed like a mirage for her, the woman dying of thirst in the desert?

…

Sansa was beginning to think she’d been forgotten about by the maester and the guards. She’d been in the cell for what felt like days, falling in and out of fitful sleeps. Nightmares of Joffrey, of her father’s execution, and of her beatings at the hands of the Kingsguard haunted her every time she slept.

Finally the maester returned to treat her feet. Sansa had to shield her eyes as guards brought in a total of five torches and placed them in sconces on the walls – sconces she didn’t even know were there.

“You said you’d come in the morning,” Sansa mumbled.

“It is the morning, my lady.”

_I’ve been here less than a day! That isn’t possible._

Sansa realized it would be more difficult than she’d thought to keep her wits about her in this place.

Qyburn addressed her flatly, “My lady, I hope you know this will bring me no joy. If you’ll take an old man’s advice, please confess so we can avoid this unpleasantness altogether.”

_They’re going to torture me._

“I will gladly confess my crimes, maester.”

A strange smile appeared on the man’s face, “So you confess to murdering King Joffrey Baratheon?”

“No.”

“Treason?”

“No.”

“Murder.”

“I’ve killed many men, though all were enemies of my people. If the court considers that murder, then so be it.”

The man sighed, “I had hoped you’d see reason, my lady.”

Qyburn motioned over a guard who held a whip in one hand. He tugged Sansa’s dress over her head. She didn’t bother resisting, knew it was futile. He turned her to face the wall.

“Oh my,” she heard Qyburn mumble, “I fear our traditional methods may not be effective with this particular subject...”


	90. The Mad Queen

**Sandor**

Sandor, Brienne, Jaime, and Tormund were camped a mile from the capital waiting for Tywin to return.

“Should’ve been back by now,” Sandor muttered.

Jaime rolled his eyes, “You say that every five minutes.”

“Aye, and it’s true every time. We should’ve brought the little wolf; she seems to have a talent for sneaking into places.”

“We won’t need to _sneak_ in, will you have some faith and patience for once in your life?”

“Patience? Aye. Faith? Not in your father. He’s getting exactly what he wanted. His lands are safe, the Dragon Queen is dead, and the Queen in the North will be soon, if she’s not already.”

Jaime shook his head but said no more.

A few minutes later Tywin and his guards came into view, “Queen Cersei has agreed to permit you entry into the Red Keep. You all will be treated as guests of the Hand and no harm will befall you.”

“Did you see Lady Sansa?” Brienne asked.

“No, but Cersei assured me she is alive and that we will have the chance to see for ourselves.”

“Father, will Cersei be open to discussing terms?” Jaime sounded desperate.

“I made it clear that was our intent. I reminded her that Lady Sansa is an ally of House Lannister and that executing an ally would not paint the Crown in a favorable light.”

…

Two hours later the group was waiting for Cersei in the small council room. Everyone sat except Tormund and Sandor, who wouldn’t stop pacing.

“Will you please sit, or at least stop stomping around?” Tywin spoke like a father scolding his sons.

The men ignored him.

Cersei entered, accompanied by five guards. Sandor only recognized Boros Blount.

_That fucking cunt is still alive?_

Cersei was all cold courtesy, “My apologies for keeping you waiting; court went long today. I assume you’ve been offered refreshments?”

“We have, your grace.” Tywin answered politely.

“Brother, it is good to see you again,” Cersei nodded at Jaime but did not smile.

“Likewise, sister, though I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

“On the contrary, I think this is a rather joyous occasion for the Crown and House Lannister. King Joffrey’s murderer has finally been apprehended, or have you forgotten that the Lady you now serve killed your nephew?”

Jaime sighed, “Cersei… your grace… Lady Sansa did not murder Joffrey.”

“If you believe that, _brother_ , then the girl has manipulated you. Though it appears you’re not the only one. Clegane, you served House Lannister your entire life. Joffrey was your charge; did you feel no shame in abandoning him?”

Sandor bit his tongue. For Sansa’s sake he wouldn’t say how he felt about the bastard king.

Tywin interceded, “Your grace, we’ve come to discuss terms for Lady Sansa’s release. There is no proof that she is guilty of the crime you allege. Furthermore, she came to the aid of House Lannister and the West. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“It means she is trying to manipulate you, too, father. I admit I’m surprised you of all people would fall victim to her scheme.”

“She is not scheming or manipulating me, daughter.”

“On this we disagree.”

Sandor finally couldn’t bite his tongue, “So what are you plans then, _your grace?_ ”

“Lady Sansa will stand trial for her crimes on the morrow. You may all stay to observe, of course.”

“Hmpf, will it be as _fair_ as all the other trials I witnessed over the years?”

“What are you implying, Clegane?”

He only shook his head, “Are we going to at least see Lady Sansa?”

Cersei eyed him a moment before nodding at Blount.

Tywin engaged Cersei in light discussion about the affairs of the Crown during the time he was away, but Sandor barely heard the exchange.

Several minutes later the door opened, and Boros and another guard led Sansa in. What Sandor saw horrified him. Tywin, Jaime, and Brienne all stood in unison, prompting the guards to draw their swords, even though all but Tywin had been disarmed upon entering the Red Keep.

Sansa was chained at wrist and ankle. She wore a thin, short-sleeved dress and was soaking wet from head to toe. Her face was unmarked, but her arms were heavily bruised. She was shivering violently, lips blue and trembling, and did not raise her eyes to greet her any of the people in the room. Sandor moved to step toward her, but Brienne placed a hand on his arm and shook her head subtly.

“Satisfied?” Cersei asked smugly.

Tywin was irate, “This is how you treat a high-born prisoner who’s not yet been found guilty of the crime you allege?”

Cersei scoffed, “She’s been treated no worse than any of the men you’ve tried to extract confessions from over the years.”

“Cersei, this is madness. You have the opportunity to be the queen that unites all of Westeros – the North, the West, the Crown… everything! You would throw that away and start a war with the North out of some misguided sense of vengeance?!”

“There is nothing _misguided_ about my vengeance, father. What kind of respect would I hold if I let the woman who murdered my son, our _king,_ walk free?”

“You’d have respect of every person this woman has saved in the past year! The entire realm, by my estimations!” Tywin’s face was red, his anger plain.

Cersei only shook her head, “You disappoint me father. What happened to the Great Lion, the man who put family before everything?”

“I am putting family first. This woman,” he pointed at Sansa, “saved House Lannister. If House Lannister turns its back on her, our entire family will be in jeopardy, we’ll have made enemies of half the realm!”

“You’re being dramatic, father. Tell me, has she won you over with her cunt just like she won over your sons? Hmm?”

Sandor lunged at Cersei, but Brienne and Tormund held him back.

“Oh, I see the Hound has gotten a taste, too,” Cersei said, pleased by the reaction she had provoked.

“You’re the only Queen who uses her fucking cunt to secure loyalty!”

“I’d watch your tongue, dog,” Cersei commanded as if he still worked for her.

“Or what? You’ll kill me, too? Fuck if I care! Let’s see how long you live to enjoy your _vengeance_ when every soldier from north and west of the capital is at your gates!”

“I suspect I’ll live quite a long time. There’ve been some developments while you were away, father.” Cersei turned back to Tywin, “You’ll be pleased to hear the Crown’s army has been reinforced, and we’ve formed some new alliances.”

Tywin turned to his daughter, “What are you talking about?”

“It seems the Iron Bank didn’t think Daenerys Targaryen was good for _business_. The dead don’t repay their loans. They fully funded the Crown so we could secure the forces needed to defend the Crownlands, and Euron Greyjoy has committed his ships and men to me.”

“You borrowed more gold from the Iron Bank?” Tywin demanded, “Do you realize you are crippling the Crown with debt owed to House Lannister and the Bank?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, father.”

“Daenerys Targaryen has been dealt with thanks to the woman you now hold captive. Release whatever sellswords you’ve engaged and repay the bank’s loan immediately.”

Jaime took a deep breath, “Why is Euron Greyjoy so willing to lend you his ships, dear sister?”

“Let’s just say the man has aspirations above his station.”

Tywin was incredulous, “You’re going to marry him? I’ve met him, he’s barely sane, on his best days.”

“Perhaps, but quite good in a fight. Once _all_ the Crown’s enemies are destroyed and only then will he get what he wants. His ships can be at White Harbor in a sennight… I wonder how your _beloved_ North will fare then...”

Tywin composed himself, “Daughter, we’ve gotten off track. I know you don’t want war with the North, especially during winter. Tell us what you want.”

“ _Us?_ Are you one of them now, father?”

“You know I am not, but they are my allies – allies who helped save my House and Kingdom. That means something to me, and I’d think it means something to you, as well.”

“Indeed it does, father. That’s why I have a very generous offer for Lady Stark, one she’d be wise to accept for the sake of her people and herself.”

Cersei paused for effect, but Tywin gestured his hand impatiently.

“I know Lady Stark had a role in Joffrey’s murder, but I do not believe she acted alone. I believe the main perpetrator was my embarrassment of a brother, Tyrion. Here are my terms, Lady Stark: order your men to bring Tyrion to me, alive. Relinquish your name and all your claims. Your brother Jon Stark must bend the knee to me but may retain the position of Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North so long as he remains loyal to the Crown. He shall marry a vassal of the Crown or the West that I choose; their first-born son will foster at King’s Landing. Their first-born daughter will foster at Casterly Rock. All of his children’s marriages will be made only with my approval…”

“As for you, you will submit yourself for sterilization and I will give you a choice: you can live out the rest of your days as a Silent Sister or as a salt wife for Lord Euron to award to one of his most deserving men. Either way, you will live, and it won’t be in a dungeon. That will remain the case as long as you never speak or act against House Lannister, the Crown, or any of its vassals or allies. You needn’t even confess your part in Joffrey’s murder, just act as a witness against my brother in his trial.”

Sansa’s answer came quickly, “That is quite tempting, your grace, though I think I shall have to decline.”

“I’d expect you to at least try to negotiate.”

“Are you willing to negotiate on the term of my surrendering your brother?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll not waste my breath.”

Cersei’s eyes filled with anger, “You still are a stupid little girl, aren’t you? You would die for my worthless imp brother?”

“I don’t plan on dying, your grace, but for the record, yes, I would, as I’d die for any of my people.”

Cersei barked out a laugh, “You dared to call _me_ short-sighted?! You realize you cannot win this one, don’t you? You will die for nothing, because my armies will destroy your people, your home, and Tyrion with it. You’d die to keep him alive a little longer, even though it means condemning your people to another war?”

“My people would rather fight another war than kneel to a madwoman.”

Sandor couldn’t remain quiet any longer, “Lady Sansa, would you not consider her offer? Lord Tyrion would not want you dying for him… Cersei is willing to negotiate the terms; you must at least try.”

Sansa turned her head in his direction only slightly, not meeting his eyes as she spoke in the cold voice of the Ice Queen, “Remember your place, Hound. You do not tell me what I must do, nor do you know what Lord Tyrion would want and not want.”

Sandor was shocked. He turned to Jaime, but the Knight only glared at him, a mysterious warning in his green eyes.

Cersei stood, “Lady Stark has made her decision. The trial will take place tomorrow at noon. You are all, of course, welcome to attend.”

“Daughter, might you give us the opportunity to speak with Lady Stark in private?”

Cersei appraised him, “You, father, will have five minutes to try to talk some sense into her. Your _guests_ can wait outside, heavily guarded.”

Sandor and the others begrudgingly exited the room. Once outside Jaime tried to get Cersei’s attention but she walked away without a backward glance.

\--------------------------------------------------------

**Tywin**

He studied the young queen for a few seconds; she looked pathetic, like a kitten who’d just been pulled from a frozen lake. She did not meet his eyes even as he spoke “Lady Sansa, is there anything I can request on your behalf to make your time more comfortable?”

“Nothing about my time here has been remotely comfortable, Lord Lannister.”

“I am truly sorry that that has been the case… then is there something you’d like me to tell your men, something you didn’t want to say in front of Cersei?”

“You can tell them not to do anything stupid; Clegane in particular. Tell Ser Jaime our armies _must not_ _attack_ , no matter what happens to me. Tell him to return to Winterfell. If she insists on war, she must bring it to us. Euron’s ships can do no harm to my landlocked home, other than cut off our ports.”

Tywin nodded, “I shall convey your message, but you know I must implore you… Will you not consider Cersei’s offer? I’ve known Tyrion longer than you, obviously. You are worth a thousand of him, my lady. His greatest talents in life are drinking and whoring...”

“If you believe that then you know your son longer but not better than I do. I pity you that you could never appreciate his intellect, his honor, and his compassion.”

Tywin bristled. Many times over the years people complimented Tyrion’s sharp mind, and each time Tywin wanted to strangle the person who uttered the words, but he would not waste his short time with Sansa arguing the point.

Tywin considered the next thing he wished to say… would it cause Sansa more pain or give her some relief? He ultimately decided on speaking the truth, come what may. He stepped closer and whispered, “I have news for you, Lady Stark. Your sister Arya is alive and well.”

He finally got a reaction out of the young woman, “Where? How?”

“She snuck into my quarters late one evening a few days after the battle. She wanted to kill me, Jaime, and Tyrion. I’m sure she still does, but she is being detained at Casterly Rock, though not harmed.”

A guard knocked on the door. _One minute left._

“How did she get there? Where has she been?”

“We have no time for that. My lady, is there anything you wish me to tell your sister?”

Sansa’s mind seemed to be racing through a hundred different options.

“Tell her I love her. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her ‘The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives’. Tell her that Jon, Clegane, Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion, Beric, Thoros, and Tormund are my pack. Tell her she can trust them; they will protect her always,” though Sansa was whispering, the passion in her voice was evident and moving even for a man as hardened at Tywin Lannister considered himself to be. After a brief internal debate, Tywin chose not to tell Sansa that Ser Beric was dead.

“Tywin,” she startled him by using his given name, “Cersei _cannot_ know about Arya, not until she is back in Winterfell. Promise me you will let her return to Winterfell. Promise me that, and your debt to me is paid in full. In fact, I’ll owe you a debt, if I come out of this alive.”

Tywin hesitated, not wanting to let the key to the North slip through his fingers, and not trusting that the younger Stark girl wouldn’t spend the rest of her life trying to murder him if he set her free.

Two guards entered and each took one of Sansa’s arms, but she fought against them, “Tywin, promise me!”

He stared at her as she flailed against the guards. Clegane and Tormund heard the struggle and rushed in, almost reaching the guards before they were subdued by six other men. The guards holding Sansa slammed her into the floor and began delivering blows to her torso. She was oblivious to them all; looking only at Tywin with a desperation he’d never seen in the girl, “Promise me! Say it! Swear it! Tywin swear it! I fought for you, _we_ fought for you! Promise me!”

The words tumbled out, though his mind did not will it, “I promise, my lady.”

She stopped resisting the guards who yanked her up and led her from the room, Clegane was cursing at the men holding him down, Jaime and Brienne ran in just as Tywin ordered the men be released.

With all the intimidation the Hand of the Queen possessed he ordered the guards to leave the room, and they complied.

“Are you a fucking simpleton?” Tywin spit at Clegane.

Clegane seethed in silence before composing himself enough to speak, “You know the trial will be a farce! They’re going to execute her, if she’s lucky! More likely your spiteful bitch of a daughter will throw her in the Black Cells and subject her to a lifetime of torture! She came to your aid! You barely even tried to talk Cersei out of this madness!”

Tywin lowered his voice, knowing the Red Keep was rife with spies reporting to Cersei, “Anything more would have only made me an enemy of the Queen. She is irrational! I don’t doubt that she would turn on her own father at this point if I stood in the way of what she wants… and what she wants is vengeance – against your lady, or my son, or both if she can get it.”

“This is all working out perfectly for you, isn’t it? Playing right into your hand!”

Jaime stepped forward in his father’s defense, “Clegane, this isn’t helping anything. My father is right – if he’d pressed the matter Cersei would only have stripped him of his title and whatever power comes with it. Our making enemies of one another won’t help Sansa.”

“Well, being friends isn’t helping her either, so all things being equal I’d rather not be his fucking friend!”

Brienne was the next to try to reason with the man, “If you are right – if the trial does not go her way, can she not demand a trial by combat?”

Jaime shook his head, “No, it was outlawed by the High Septon some years ago.”

“No,” Tywin said, “Cersei reinstated it after the explosion at the Sept of Baelor…”

Sandor’s eyes brightened, “Will she honor it?”

Tywin rubbed his forehead, “With her nothing is certain, but she’d be a hypocrite to decry it after she petitioned so passionately in support of it after the Septon made his proclamation.”

“Father,” Jaime implored, “in case Cersei gets any ideas, you’ll speak in support of the trial by combat, can you do that much?”

Tywin nodded, “As her Hand, I will advise her of the backlash likely if she does not allow it.”

Tormund spoke next, suspicion in his tone, “What did the Red Wolf make you promise?”

Tywin didn’t want to say it; he made a promise he didn’t know he could keep, “That is between Lady Sansa and I.” They all looked at him curiously but knew him too well to demand an answer.

\-------------------------------------------

**Jaime**

As guests of Tywin, Jaime and the others were given chambers in the Tower of the Hand, though a dozen guards were posted in the hallway. They were clearly men loyal to Cersei. His father has his own Lannister men outside his bedchamber.

It was late in the night, but Jaime could not sleep. He didn’t realize just how dependent he’d become on Brienne’s presence. They spent considerable time on the road together searching for the Stark sisters, then guarding one of those sisters, then looking for the other, then back to guarding the other. Even the past fortnight at Casterly Rock they shared a room so that Sansa and Sandor could do the same.

Jaime was still wrestling with his feelings for Brienne. He was certain there was mutual respect and trust between them. He knew they enjoyed each other’s company above most others. He couldn’t deny he felt a stirring of lust for her, and he’d caught her on multiple occasions looking at him. Then again, most women did. He was in better shape than men half his age. The lines around his eyes and mouth and wisps of gray hair at his temples didn’t diminish his attractiveness, he was proud to say. With the resemblance to his father he was certain that he would continue to age well – at nearly sixty years old Tywin Lannister was still tall, fit, and handsome – hair still more blond than gray, and with fewer wrinkles than men ten years his junior.

_The benefit of a life without joy – no laugh lines or crow’s feet._

Jaime’s mind turned back to Brienne _._ That he wanted her was undeniable, but he was still afraid of the repercussions of acting on his desire. For one, she might not return his feelings and he would be both embarrassed and devastated. But he was simultaneously afraid that she _would_ return his feelings and he’d somehow fuck it up, and then lose not just her affection but also her friendship and trust.

He cursed himself for his complete lack of experience in this domain. He’d only ever been with Cersei, only ever held Cersei, only ever wanted Cersei. It was madness, he knew – even men who were happily married and impeccably faithful to their wives still lusted after a pretty wench or camp follower on occasion. Jaime, on the other hand, wasn’t even married to his lover yet was never even tempted to pursue another woman, even casually. Thinking on it now, he reasoned that perhaps the fact that Cersei was never truly _his_ is why he continued to have eyes only for her all those years.

_Men always want what they can’t have, don’t they? And I never truly had her, even though she had me…_

And yet now he finally longed for a woman he _could_ have – assuming Brienne’s desires aligned with his – and it brought him only confusion and fear. Could he please a woman other than Cersei? Could _he_ be pleased by a woman other than Cersei? Would he grow tired of Brienne? Would she grow tired of him? What would it mean for their future? Would she want to marry, have children? _Did he?_

Eventually his exhaustion overtook him, for he was jolted awake by the sound of his door opening. His ghost hand reached for his sword, but his left hand quickly took over the task. For a moment he thought Brienne had come to him, until he heard an all too familiar voice, “Hello Jaime.”

He exhaled, “Cersei.”

She sat on the edge of his bed.

“I’ve missed you, Jaime. I’ve wanted nothing as badly as I wanted to see you, and yet you finally come home not for me, but for Sansa Stark.”

“Cersei, you made it clear the last time you saw me that you wanted nothing to do with me. That you’d moved on. With Cousin Lancel, I believe. Or was it one of the Kettleblacks? No, it must be Euron Greyjoy now… I’m sorry, it’s so hard to keep up.”

She tsked him as if his accusations were trivial, “Don’t act jealous Jaime, I know you love _her_.”

_Fuck, how does she know about Brienne?_ Jaime felt panic in his chest – Cersei was a jealous and spiteful woman, if she even suspected Jaime’s feelings, Brienne would not be safe here.

“Love _who_ , sister?”

“The northern whore who killed our son.”

“I do not love Sansa Stark, and she is not a whore, and as hard as it may be for you to believe, she did not kill Joffrey…” he took a deep breath, “and frankly, if she had killed him, I’d not fault her for it now, knowing what I know.”

Cersei gasped, “How can you say that? He was our son! He was a Lannister through and through. He was blood… Lions always protect their pride!”

“Like you protect Tyrion?”

She narrowed her green eyes at him, “Tyrion is a deformed creature who killed our mother to enter this world. There are rumors he isn’t even father’s, that the Mad King got him on mother in an act of rape.”

Jaime was shocked; he had never heard this rumor, but it would make sense given everything Jaime knew about the Mad King’s character, not to mention his hatred for Tywin. But he realized Cersei was trying to distract him with this revelation.

“Even if that rumor is true, none of that is Tyrion’s fault, and it would still make him a Lannister through our lady mother.”

“And a Targaryen – our enemy! But regardless, he killed Joffrey – he and his bitch!”

“Tyrion and Sansa did not kill Joffrey! Joffrey killed himself by making enemies everywhere he went. There were any number of people at the time that wanted him dead, either for personal motives or to protect the realm.”

“I can’t believe you are taking their side! Tyrion and Sansa were the last people to touch the goblet he drank from – the one that had been coated in the poison. No one else could have done it!”

Jaime shook his head, “Why are you here, Cersei?”

Her tone changed from anger to innocence in the blink of an eye, “I’ve missed you, as I said. It was torture not running into your arms when I saw you earlier.”

“I thought my arms were less appealing to you now… the one anyway.”

“Oh stop Jaime, you can’t fault me for my initial reaction upon seeing your disfigurement.”

“Disfigurement? Tyrion has a disfigurement; I have an _injury_. I lost a limb thanks to men sworn to Roose Bolton, who you and father continued to support after they maimed me.”

“So is that why you care about her? Because she killed the Boltons?”

“ _We_ killed the Boltons, but no. I care about her, I follow her, because she is a good person. She is good to her people, she is strong, she is just, she is brave… she is _honorable_.”

“Pfft… yet you deny that you love her?”

“I do not love her romantically if that is what you mean. I love her the way a subject should love his King or Queen. I care about her as a person, as she cares about me and all her other people.”

The anger was back, “Perhaps she should sit on the Iron Throne then, brother.”

“Perhaps she should, but she doesn’t want it, if that’s what you’re worried about. She has no designs on usurping you. She only wants to serve the North and see it prosperous and peaceful. Is that so difficult for you to allow?”

“She is a traitorous whore. Her parents and brother were traitors. She is a traitor. You think because she came to father’s aid that it wipes out all her past transgressions?”

Jaime sighed; his sister was completely incapable of seeing reason, “Are we done, sister? I’d like to get some sleep.”

Anger transformed into seduction, and Cersei grabbed his crotch, “I remember what would always help you sleep. Don’t tell me you don’t still want me, brother. I know that frosty bitch could never fuck you like I do… could never love you like I do.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, “ _Let go of me_. Are you so jaded that you can’t believe men would follow a woman for reasons other than sex or fear?”

She leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “No, I just know those are the most efficient means.” She sucked on his earlobe, and for the first time in his life the sensation disgusted him.

“Leave, Cersei. You’re making a fool of yourself.”

She sat back as if he’d slapped her but didn’t get off the bed.

A lifetime’s worth of resentment welled inside his stomach, swelling like the rain cloud of a summer storm, “Leave,” he growled, louder this time.

“Jaime…”

“Leave!” he shouted, but she still did not move. He counted silently to ten, and then the thunder cracked and had no way of escaping but through his mouth. “Get the fuck out!” he yelled. In a flash he stood, gripped her by the arm and pushed her backwards toward the door, opening it and thrusting her into the hallway. The guards looked at them a moment but said nothing.

“How dare you, brother!” she said, as regally as possible in her current state. Sandor and Brienne had been roused by the sound and each peeked out into the hallway.

Cersei stomped away with no sign of shame. When she was out of earshot both warriors pushed their way into Jaime’s quarters, Sandor practically knocking him over.

“What did she say?” he demanded.

“Nothing of consequence.”

“She didn’t say anything about Lady Sansa?” Brienne asked, desperation plain in her voice.

“No, other than the same old song Cersei has been singing for years – ‘ _Sansa’s a whore… Sansa’s a traitor…’_ Oh the irony,” Jaime threw his arms up.

Sandor shook his head, “You should have fucked her. Might put her in a better mood for tomorrow.”

Brienne blushed but Jaime only rolled his eyes, “Past experience would strongly indicate that would not have been the case. Cersei hasn’t been in a good mood since we were ten.”

“Then maybe you’re not doing it right.”

Jaime didn’t know whether to strike the man or laugh at his jape. What he really wanted to do was cry. Before he could formulate any response, Sandor spoke again, “Who will Cersei name champion if there’s to be a trial by combat?”

Jaime shrugged, “There are none I know of in her current Queensguard that could best any of us. Unfortunately Cersei knows that. I suspect she’ll pick someone else, though I know not who.”

Brienne scrunched her brow, “What of Euron Greyjoy? Would he do it?”

Jaime nodded, “He probably would; from what I’ve heard the man is fearless and cocky. Though I doubt he could beat Clegane, or probably even you or Tormund. Sadly I’m not as confident in myself given my… deficit.”

“Won’t matter,” Sandor crossed his arms, “she’ll pick me. I know she will.”

Brienne and Jaime looked at each other before the latter spoke, “If she’s going to risk someone’s neck, you really think it will be yours, dog?”

“Then you two keep your mouths shut… I know Sansa, she won’t pick someone who isn’t willing to volunteer. We’ll tell Tormund the same, though I doubt many men can beat that crazy fucker, either.”

The blond warriors looked at each other and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just for the record, despite me writing her as a completely deranged bitch, I love the Cersei character (more in books than TV). Remember at this point in my fic she has lost all three of her children and her brother/lover left her, so we're seeing Cersei at her worst.


	91. The Wolf's Trial - Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV from one of my all time favorite characters.

**Sandor**

The throne room was packed beyond its normal capacity with spectators. Sandor had never seen so many attend a trial. _Here for the entertainment – the trial of the century: the southern queen versus the northern queen._

Sandor silently cursed them all. _Do you even know how this woman has sacrificed for her people, for the realm? Do you know you all might be walking corpses right now if it weren’t for her? Or burnt to a crisp?_

To Sandor’s surprise, it seemed some of them _did_ know. As Sansa was led into the room a few brave souls called out to her.

_“Lady Sansa!”_

_“Thank you, m’lady!”_

_“Stark!”_

Hidden within the throng Cersei’s guards could not single out any of the speakers, so instead Cersei demanded silence for the proceeding.

The maester was introduced by Cersei as the man who would oversee the trial. Cersei sat at a table with Tywin Lannister at her right. Sansa was brought to stand before them, her back to the crowd.

Cersei was not stupid – she knew the importance of appearance. She had Sansa dressed in the outfit she wore the day of the battle – the clothes of a warrior, not a lady. Her hair was clean and braided. Every indication of her treatment the past sennight was hidden under clothing; only the dark circles under her eyes hinted at her true state of health.

A number of the guards seemed to be enjoying the view of Sansa’s backside in her snug fitting leather breeches. Sandor wanted to gut them all and knew he could get through a good many before he’d be killed or subdued.

The maester cleared his throat and spoke, “Lady Sansa Stark, the first crime alleged against you is murder. Do you deny killing the following men, all sworn to the Crown and thus under protection of King Tommen, at the time: Lord Roose Bolton, Lord Ramsay Bolton…” The maester read off what must have been close to fifty names; Sandor assumed they were all Bolton men.

Sansa stared blankly. When the maester concluded his question she snapped her eyes up, “My apologies, maester, could you repeat the question?”

The crowd chuckled before Cersei silenced them with a murderous glare.

Qyburn was about to actually repeat the list of names when Sansa stopped him, “Maester Qyburn, I’d hate to be the cause of your hoarse throat, especially since you’ve treated me _so well_ during my time here. I do not deny killing Roose and Ramsay Bolton, though I cannot say with certainty that I personally killed any of the other men you’ve named. I did not take names.”

Qyburn continued, “So you admit killing Lord Bolton and his heir, Ramsay Bolton, both sworn to the Crown?”

“I do, with pride.”

A few more chuckles could be heard.

_They love her…_

“You are also accused of the crime of treason: by declaring yourself Queen in the North you put yourself and your people in open rebellion against the Crown. Do you deny this charge?”

“I did not declare myself Queen in the North, though I accepted the position. As for rebelling against the Crown, I have not taken up arms or conspired against the Crown in any way.”

“Do you realize, my lady, that the act of calling yourself Queen in the North was an act of treason?”

Sansa shrugged, “I did not realize this. The North existed as an independent Kingdom for thousands of years; I merely restored my Kingdom to its former state.”

“Against the wishes of the Crown.”

“I see that now,” she shrugged again.

The crowd laughed again, a bit louder this time. Qyburn raised his voice to speak over them, “The final charge against you is regicide. Do you deny murdering King Joffrey Baratheon?”

“I do, though it fills me with regret to say so.”

More laughter broke out. Cersei gave a silent command to Boros Blount, who picked a random spectator and led him out roughly, no doubt for a beating – or worse.

“If you were innocent, why did you flee moments after the King was poisoned? You were not seen again until you arrived at the Vale seeking refuge many months later.”

“I did not flee, I was led away, though I admit I did not put up much resistance.”

“By whom were you led away?”

“Someone serving the person who _did_ conspire to kill Joffrey.”

This time the crowd gasped, and Cersei’s eyes widened. Sandor was just as surprised.

“And who might that conspirator be?” Qyburn asked.

“I choose not to say.”

“Why? You are protecting this person? That is also a capital crime.”

“I am not protecting the person, but I have no solid proof of their involvement in Joffrey’s death, thus I will not drag them into this trial.”

Cersei rose, “This is an obvious lie, she is trying to make us doubt her involvement. Maester, let us proceed with the witnesses…”

For the next hour a number of “witnesses” were called forth. They included servants and guards who claimed to witness Sansa procuring the poison used to kill Joffrey, speaking to her husband Tyrion about their plans for the crime, or even administering the poison during the wedding. The most ridiculous was a man who claimed Sansa bought his silence with a certain sexual favor, which caused him years of guilt until he finally came forward to confess his knowledge to Queen Cersei, who mercifully forgave his former lapse in judgment.

Sansa was still as a stone during the testimonies, until finally she said, “Well, it would appear not only did I kill Joffrey, but I made no attempt to cover my tracks. This is quite embarrassing.”

Cersei rose again, “Enough! We have presented more than enough proof of Lady Stark’s responsibility for King Joffrey’s death, not to mention her admission of guilt in the other crimes. I see no reason why the court should not find her guilty on all counts.”

Sansa nodded, “I would agree your grace. Perhaps I shall exercise my right to be judged by the Gods, I fear it is the only chance I’ll have for a fair trial.”

“You demand a trial by combat then?” Cersei’s victorious smile made Sandor’s blood run cold.

“I do.”

“The court will allow it.”

_What the fuck does the mad bitch have up her sleeve?_

“Who will be your champion, Lady Stark?”

“Hmm…” Sansa turned to face the place where Jaime, Tormund, Sandor, and Brienne stood. “Ser Jaime…”

_No!_

Cersei’s face reddened with rage before Sansa continued with a smirk on her face, knowing her words had their intended effect, “…in your expert opinion, who would make the best champion?”

Even Jaime couldn’t help but grinning, “You have many fine choices, my lady, though personally I would recommend Sandor Clegane.”

Sansa nodded, “Indeed he’d be a most wise choice,” she turned back to Cersei, “except that I know who _your_ champion will be, your grace. And I’ll ask none of my loyal men to face the monster.”

“No!” Sandor shouted, but a trio of guards came over to keep him back at swordpoint.

Sansa ignored his outburst, “I need no champion, your grace. Perhaps you’ll decide the same, make this a _true_ trial by combat.”

Cersei smirked, “I don’t claim to be anything I’m not, Lady Stark. I will let the Gods’ will be done through my champion; I am a _Queen_ , not a warrior.”

“Ahh, of course; I do remember you once telling me the only weapon a woman could wield is the one between her legs, and I’d never be able to best you in that… you’ve had decades to master your craft.”

The crowd could not contain their laughter, and another example was made as two guards dragged out a young woman.

Cersei ignored the commotion as well as Sansa’s insult, “My champion will be Ser Robert Strong,” she lifted a hand and from an alcove emerged a man so large as Sandor had only seen once before…

_No!_

Sandor lunged toward the hulking figure, “Gregor!” He could not see his face but knew it was his older brother.

It took four guards to subdue the younger Clegane. The man in head-to-toe armor did not react.

Cersei addressed all present, “Justice is long overdue and will not be further delayed. The trial will take place at dusk today.” Cersei turned and exited in a swirl of black skirts.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Sandor screamed at Cersei’s back. He was dragged from the hall and pummeled by five guards, though he got in a few licks before they had him fully restrained.

Tywin Lannister appeared, “That is enough!” The guards released Sandor.

Tywin addressed him sternly, “You’ll only succeed in getting yourself killed along with your lady.”

Jaime, Tormund, and Brienne appeared next. “Father, what in Seven Hells is that _thing_?”

Tywin shook his head and spoke in a low voice, “I believe it _was_ Gregor Clegane. Cersei had Qyburn work on the man after the Viper of Dorne nearly killed him in an act of revenge. Last I knew, Qyburn was unsuccessful in saving the man… Apparently, I was misinformed.”

Sandor ran his hands down his face, “She knew he would be Cersei’s champion; she knows I want to kill the fucker myself, why would she not name me her champion?”

The others had no answer. Brienne looked at him with pity in her blue eyes, “I’m sorry, Clegane.”

Tormund was the only one holding on to a shred of hope, “The Red Wolf killed the Night King, she killed the Dragon Queen, she can kill a man. I’ve seen a lone she-wolf take down an elk.”

Jaime snorted, “An elk yes, but not a mountain.”

Brienne looked livid, “Lord Lannister, if Sansa somehow is triumphant, will your daughter honor the Gods’ judgment?”

Tywin only stared at the warrior woman. It was not a look of reassurance.

\----------------------------------------------------------

**Varys**

_Oh dear, what a most unfortunate turn of events._

As Lady Sansa was led out of the throne room to the smaller room where she’d be held until the trial by combat, the Master of Whispers followed silently.

He had tried a few times to speak to Lady Sansa while she was being held in the Black Cells, but each time he had to abandon his attempts. One of either Kettleblack or Blount was always present outside Sansa’s cell. They were loyal to Cersei and Cerseialone. The Queen’s paranoia had reached an all-time high, and it seemed the only people she trusted were these two men along with her beast of a guard and the eccentric maester Qyburn.

Varys and Cersei had never had a relationship built on trust, but for a brief time he had served a purpose – he provided the Queen with information collected from his network of spies. But somehow, she had developed her own network, and it was one of the few things that angered Varys that she did so without him finding out. She hadn’t entirely cast him aside, but he knew his days were numbered as long as she sat the throne.

During this time, Varys found an unexpected ally in Tywin Lannister. The man was well aware that his daughter teetered on the brink of sanity on her best days, but it seemed family was too important to the Old Lion to do anything _permanent_ to remedy the situation. With both his sons sworn to House Stark and all three of his grandchildren dead, Cersei was his last chance at the legacy he so greatly desired.

Varys was glad to see the room where Sansa was being held was guarded not by Blount and Kettleblack, but by two guards over whom Varys still held influence. One was a young bastard from the Stormlands who, unbeknownst to Cersei, still felt allegiance to Stannis Baratheon. The other, named Preston Brance, was from the Westerlands, and had secretly been reporting to the spider about Sansa’s treatment during her imprisonment. It was quite unpleasant to hear.

The men let Varys enter, and he found the northern queen sitting on the windowsill, her wrists and ankles still chained.

“Your grace, allow me to express my sympathy.”

“I’m not dead yet, Lord Varys.”

“Indeed, and I hope it remains that way long past this day.”

The girl looked at him, searching for signs of deception.

“I’m afraid I have not much time, so I’ll be direct. You have friends in the South and the West, my lady. They may not be powerful, but they are many. The people have suffered under inept rulers for too long. I had briefly hoped Daenerys Targaryen would change that, but unfortunately she had too much of her father’s madness in her.”

She continued staring at him, clearly waiting for the purpose of his visit to be revealed.

“Should you survive the trial, and I truly pray you do, I hope you will consider me a friend. I only wish what is best for the realm.”

He turned to leave but Sansa called to him, “Lord Varys.”

“Yes, your grace?”

“Thank you for helping our mutual friend.”

_So Tyrion has told her that I was the one who helped him escape after Joffrey’s murder._

“The fact that you think of such a thing at a time like this proves you are a true queen. Though no thanks are needed. As I said, I want what is best for the realm, and I help those who help the realm – whether they do so deliberately or not.”

He exited without another word and proceeded to the Tower of the Hand. He almost smiled when he found Tywin Lannister staring out his window just as the northern queen had been doing.

“Lord Varys,” the Old Lion spoke without turning his head.

“Lord Hand. Are you satisfied with today’s trial?”

“You know I am not. State your purpose, Varys, and state it _plainly_.”

“Are you really going to let this happen?”

The lion finally turned toward the spider, “Do you know a way I can stop it without doing more harm than good?”

Varys shook his head.

“Then you have your answer.”

Both men eyed each other before Tywin spoke again, “What do you know of Cersei’s dealings with the Iron Bank while I was away at Casterly Rock?”

Varys sighed, “Sadly, she was able to leverage the panic that ensued after Daenerys Targaryen’s attack to convince the Iron Bank to lend her _significant_ funds. I believe, my lord, that she claimed to be speaking on behalf of not just the Crown but also the West, thereby also leveraging the good name you have worked so hard to establish.”

Tywin bristled, “Cersei’s entire life she has benefited from my good name, and she has all but destroyed it despite my best efforts to repair all the damage she leaves in her wake.”

If Varys hadn’t learned to school his features, his face would have born a look of deep shock. The Great Lion was always careful not to speak out directly against his daughter, or anyone that was his blood, except perhaps his dwarf son.

“Would I be within my rights to ask what you will do if Lady Sansa meets her end today?”

“You would not.”

“Then what about if she somehow survives?”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, “As Hand of the Queen, I will ensure the outcome of her trial is honored. What I do beyond that is not your concern.”

Varys nodded, he was used to the man guarding his plans as fiercely as he guarded the gold and silver mines of his lands.

“Is that all, Lord Varys?”

“Almost, Lord Hand. I’m curious if you gave Lady Stark the dagger and shared with her the impact the little weapon had.”

Tywin hesitated before answering, “I did, though as far as I know the weapon is still in Casterly Rock with her other personal possessions, to be returned to her if she survives this trial, or to be kept by me if she does not. If you’re asking whether I told her that you were the other witness present when Littlefinger spun his lies to her lady mother, I did not.”

Varys nodded, “Thank you, Lord Hand. I will leave you now but not before stating what I hope you already know – our interests are aligned. If I can be of any service, I trust you’ll let me know.”


	92. The Wolf's Trial - Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of past torture and rape, not overly graphic, but consider yourself warned.

**Tywin**

The reaction of the spectators at court today along with the thousand spectators gathered now to watch the trial by combat proved the merits of Tywin’s original plan. If only that plan didn’t center on a woman who was about to be killed by the monster that had once been Gregor Clegane. Tywin was incensed that the girl did not name Sandor Clegane as her champion – it would still not be a guaranteed victory, but the younger Clegane brother was the superior swordsmen and the only man in the realm strong enough to have a chance of withstanding Gregor’s brute force.

_Her sense of “honor” will be her downfall, just as it was her father’s._

Tywin’s never-idle mind was immediately turning to other options. With the younger Stark sister, he may still be able to leverage Sansa’s legacy. Arya no doubt shared her sister’s courage, but could she lead people? Would she command respect wherever she went as Sansa did? Would she be a just and wise ruler? Tywin had many doubts.

_The brother on the other hand – Ned’s bastard – he has potential…_

Tywin’s attention was pulled back to the pit before him. He sat beside his daughter Cersei on the dais. She had said not a word to him since the “trial” that occurred just a few hours earlier.

Sansa’s binds were cut. She was brought before Cersei and Tywin. Cersei gestured to a table where a variety of weapons and shields were laid out, “Lady Stark, let no one say I am not fair. Your opponent has the clear size and strength advantage, you may take any and as many weapons as you wish, nothing is off limits in this trial.”

Sansa offered an exaggerated curtsy, “Your grace is most generous. I only ask for the weapons that belong to me: four daggers and a shortsword.”

Cersei nodded, “I suspected you’d say that. You will find your weapons with the others, unaltered and just as deadly as when you last held them.”

Sansa found her weapons as promised. There were shields and various pieces of steel armor also available, but she declined them.

_Clever girl… speed will be your only advantage in this fight, armor and shields would only slow you down._

Gradually a small chant from a few brave spectators turned into a raucous cheer that nearly all present had taken up. Tywin looked around to see everyone on their feet, repeating “Stark, Stark, Stark!” Cersei could do nothing; shouting and cheering was permissible in trials by combat, and even encouraged, as it normally worked _against_ the accused.

Tywin looked to Jaime and his companions. Jaime met his eyes for a moment and nodded as if to say “ _You asked why I follow this woman? This is why…”_

Tormund began howling, and little by little those around him abandoned their chants to mimic him. Soon the sound of synchronized howling was almost deafening. Even Tywin could not deny the power of this moment. Throughout the pit, illuminated by torchlight and the last rays of the setting sun, an energy was pulsing. Married with the howls, it was hard not to think he was about to witness a historic moment: either the death of a great hero or the rise of the greatest Queen the realm would ever know.

Sansa herself was only staring at Cersei’s champion on the opposite side of the pit, about twenty paces away. He stood completely still, unnerved by the praise being showered on his opponent. The man wore heavy armor, only able to see through two eye holes and breathe through small slits at the nose and mouth. The sword still sheathed at his hip was the largest Tywin had ever seen, even larger than the one Gregor used to carry. He doubted most men could lift it, let alone swing it with any precision.

Sansa raised a hand and the crowd quieted within seconds. She picked up a plain dagger from the table and tossed it up and down casually as she projected her voice to address the crowd, “This blade killed Ramsay and Roose Bolton, and countless other men who thought to harm me or my people.”

She sheathed the dagger at her right hip, then picked up the next one which had a jagged black blade, “This blade killed the Night King, saving the realm of men from an icy death.” She tossed that one a few times as well, before sheathing it at her right thigh.

“ _This_ blade,” she held up the white-handled Valyrian dagger gifted to her by Tywin himself, “killed the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Targaryen…” the crowd cheered again, “…saving the realm of men from a fiery death.” She repeated her routine, tossing the blade before sheathing it at the back of her belt.

Next she lifted the shortsword, also gifted by Tywin, “This sword pierced the scales of the Queen’s largest dragon, making it possible for me to reach its rider.” She sheathed the sword at her left hip.

Finally she lifted the gray-handled Valyrian dagger above her head, “This dagger has not yet seen its glory… perhaps this will be my lucky blade today!” The crowd erupted in cheers. Sansa tossed the dagger up and down as if she had not a care in the world. She did not stop this time.

_She knows how to work a crowd._ Tywin knew Sansa’s actions and words were driven by strategy, not pride. She was not basking in the crowd’s adoration – she was winning their support while weakening their respect for Cersei – assuming they still held any.

Cersei herself rose now and waited for the crowd to quiet enough for her voice to be heard, “If your mummer’s show is over, we have a trial to conduct.”

Sansa didn’t take the eyes off the dagger twirling up and down in the air before her, “I’m ready whenever you are, your grace.”

Cersei wasted not a second, “The trial by combat to determine the innocence or guilt of Lady Sansa Stark has officially commenced.”

…

It happened so fast Tywin’s brain couldn’t keep up with his eyes. The crowd must have felt the same as they simply stared in awe at Sansa’s opponent, and the dagger buried to the hilt in the man’s large neck. It was the only part of his body not covered by metal armor. The man stood still, likely just as stunned as everyone else. Sansa had snatched the blade out of the air immediately after Cersei proclaimed the trial had begun, and in one smooth motion she whipped it at her target, landing a direct hit.

As dark liquid began spurting out around the blade, the crowd, including Sansa’s companions, finally broke from their reverie and began cheering again. They jumped and stomped, clapped their hands, shouted, howled, hooted, and chanted her name.

But still the man did not fall. Instead, he very slowly reached for the handle and pulled the dagger out of his neck. More inky blood gushed from the wound, but the man looked unfazed.

Tywin rose and looked toward Jaime and Sandor, who were staring in horror at the sight before them. He could only mutter to his daughter, “What have you done?”

Cersei looked at him with a saccharine smile, “What do you mean, father?”

The hulking man drew his massive sword and began sauntering toward Sansa. The girl looked shocked but had the presence of mind to draw two of her other daggers, one in each hand – the blade that killed the Dragon Queen, and the blade that killed the Boltons.

Ser Robert, as Cersei had called him, was slower than Gregor Clegane ever was, but seemingly impervious to the deep wound that would have killed any other man. He approached Sansa, who backed up and began walking sideways in a large circle. The man simply followed her, in no apparent rush to kill her. He swung a few times, but Sansa was nimble, and evaded him easily each time.

This continued for several minutes until eventually Sansa chose the moment to make her move. Ser Robert raised his sword high overhead and Sansa took the opportunity to dive past him, wasting no time in jumping on his back. She buried the smaller dagger in his left eye slit and used it to hold herself up while stabbing repeatedly at his neck. She must have stabbed at least six times before the man dropped his sword and swatted at her clumsily with a mailed hand. He acted as if she was nothing more than a pesky bug. Finally his fingers found purchase in her hair, and the girl cried out in pain as he yanked her roughly over his shoulder by the hair and slammed her hard on the ground.

The crowd winced in unison at the loud thud that echoed when her body met earth, but then something even more alarming caught their attention. Sansa must not have let go of the dagger buried in his eye when he threw her off, and somehow his helm and her dagger went to the ground with her.

The face Tywin saw vaguely resembled the man who’d once been Gregor Clegane, but his skin was a sickly shade of greenish gray. He had no hair, and his skull bore long scars that followed transecting lines like those Tywin had only ever seen on corpses examined for medical or investigatory purposes.

The crowd was booing and throwing whatever they had at the monster they saw, but he looked only at the girl below him, still gasping for air. He planted a heavy boot on her chest. Her attempts to push it off of her were as ineffective as a squirrel pushing a boulder uphill.

The monster looked up at Cersei who nodded and smiled her approval, “Well done, Ser Robert. Bring her here, I want to look in her eyes as you squeeze the life out of her.”

With no sign of emotion the man lifted Sansa off the ground by her neck and in three long strides was in front of Cersei. Tywin could only watch in horror as her small body was slammed against one of the columns that supported the roof of the dais.

From his left Tywin heard the pained shouts of Sandor and Tormund. They and their companions, including Tywin’s own son, were being beaten back by a number of gold cloaks, but a swell of peasants had now taken up their cause and were taking on the heavily armored guards with nothing but bare fists and rocks.

It didn’t matter, the girl was turning purple, she’d be dead before anyone reached her, and Tywin doubted that even a dozen men would be able to pry this beast’s fingers from her neck.

_So the death of a hero it will be that makes this day historic…_

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa was desperately clawing at the mailed hand around her neck to no avail. The shouts she had heard moments ago now sounded distant. Her vision was closing in so that all she could see was his face – straight mouth, dead eyes, crooked nose, grotesque gray skin.

_The last thing I’ll see will be the ugly face of Gregor Clegane – or what used to be Gregor Clegane. The man who burned Sandor – who inflicted so much pain on the man I love._

She started to feel it… the feeling she’d had just before succumbing to her wound from the Night King’s sword. The pain was leaving her, and in its place was peace.

_The dark place… I’ll go to the dark place now._

But there was something else competing for her attention, something that grew larger as her body itself became weaker: _rage_.

_This fucker burned Sandor._

She felt a renewed desire to fight. She kicked her legs up, managing to land a few feeble blows to his chest, but he was unbothered. Staring into his eyes she saw the reflection of a flame… a lantern.

_I can’t kill you, but I can make you burn!_

She reached her right hand out and it was burned by the very flame she saw reflected in his eyes. She reached lower until she found the base of the lantern. With no regard for her own safety she smashed it against his ugly head, spraying oil on both of them, though he took the bulk of it along with the flames. He dropped her and she immediately grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it into her own face where she felt the oil land, not even knowing if it had been aflame.

She choked and coughed as air flooded back into her lungs and blood back into her brain. She’d had this feeling one too many times during her imprisonment in the Black Cells. Qyburn had taken one look at the scars on her body and decided drawing blood would not be sufficient to extract a confession. Instead he had the guards bring in a deep and wide bucket of water and had them hold her head underwater, each time bringing her to the brink of drowning before pulling her back up. Sometimes they let her breathe a few minutes before submerging her again, other times they allowed only one inhalation of breath before shoving her face back into the bucket. The first time they subjected her to this torture she counted five repetitions before her lungs burned as if she’d inhaled flames. They repeated it twelve times before giving up for the day.

The next day they had brought in a large tub and filled it with ice and water, then submerged her entire body in the water repeatedly, again bringing her up only when she had almost lost consciousness.

This became a daily occurrence. On the fourth day Boros Blount entered just after they’d concluded the water torture. Sansa was too weak to fight, having exhausted all her energy in her instinctive but ineffective attempts to fight the strong arms that held her underwater. She was laying on her stomach on the dirt floor shivering uncontrollably when Blount entered and laid his body heavily over hers. He lifted her dress and penetrated her violently, whispering in her ear, _“The Queen sends her regards.”_

Sansa had let the stillness take her. She left her body there for him to use, her eyes open but unseeing. He bit her shoulder with his release, but she did not move. He stood and left the cell and still she did not move. She didn’t move when the one called Kettleblack entered and took his turn with her, moaning the same words in her ear, _“The Queen sends her regards.”_ The third guard entered, the one called Brance. He spewed insults at her loudly, but then kneeled by her side and pulled the hem of her dress down to cover her. Sansa still did not move, still did not speak. Even when the man whispered, _“I’ll not hurt you, my lady,”_ she didn’t thank him, didn’t beg for his help. She just laid on the ground until several minutes later he rose. Sighing remorsefully he pulled the hem up to expose her again and said loudly _, “The Queen sends her regards,”_ before exiting.

The anguish she had suppressed during those dark days broke loose now in the pit, as she caught her breath and managed to stand up. The monster of a man was rolling in the dirt and had managed to smother most of the flames. Sansa grabbed another lantern and flung it at him. It shattered against his armor and set him aflame once more. She was vaguely aware that Cersei was screaming but ignored her and repeated this step again with another lantern, then a torch, and then another torch. Over and over.

Sansa stared at the flames, mesmerized. The crowd that had been shouting and fighting was now still and silent. Only Cersei’s desperate shouts could be heard. She was commanding her guards to “kill the traitor”, but Tywin spoke over her, “You follow that order, you’ll have a riot on your hands!” The guards were not stupid; they looked around them and saw that they wouldn’t last five minutes if the thousand or more spectators – not to mention countless people outside the walls of the pit – took up arms against them.

Some time must have passed as Sansa stood in a daze. Sansa looked back to the body of her opponent. The last of the flames had finally burnt out, leaving behind a giant, charred corpse. Sansa approached it, shortsword drawn. Satisfied he was dead or at least incapacitated, she lifted the sword over her head and swung down on his neck with all her might, which at the moment was very little. Even with the Valyrian blade it took three hacks to get through the neck that was as wide as a tree limb.

She lifted the heavy, charred head which was weeping ink-black blood. It was hot to the touch, so she held it against her leather-clothed elbow. She limped to the dais where Cersei stood with a look of pure shock. She chucked the heavy thing and it landed at Cersei’s feet.

“The Queen sends her regards.”


	93. Three Wolves

**Jaime**

During the mayhem following the trial, Tywin and his loyal Lannister guards escorted Sansa and her companions through the Dragon Gate after having their mounts and weapons returned to them. He traveled with them a mile north to where the armies of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands had arrived only earlier that day.

Tywin addressed Jaime, “Lead your armies north along the Kingsroad. I will send a raven to Ser Addam and instruct him to escort Lady Arya via the River Road to the Inn at the Crossroads, along with all your possessions. They will await you there if he arrives before you.”

Jaime nodded. Next Tywin directed his words to Lords Tully and Baelish, “Queen Sansa and her people are friends of House Lannister, and by extension House Tully and House Arryn. I expect you to protect them as fiercely as I would, and to stop any army that may try to pursue them.”

The two Lords nodded solemnly.

Jaime followed his father’s eyes to Sansa, who was sitting pillion with her sworn shield atop his black destrier, the large white wolf standing sentry beside them. After making it out of the Dragon Pit and past the walls of King’s Landing Sansa had collapsed. Brienne took her aside and inspected her body. She reported that Sansa appeared to have a couple cracked ribs, a dark bruise on her chest in the shape of Ser Robert’s boot, a variety of smaller bruises over much of her arms, legs, and torso, and cuts on her feet that had been bandaged already. Clegane paced and cursed angrily, and Jaime himself had to calm the man down.

Jaime joined his father in looking at her now. All the confidence, determination, and rage she displayed during the duel was gone. Her eyes were glazed, her face blank. She leaned back against the wall that was Clegane’s chest, head hung to one side as if her neck was boneless. If not for Clegane’s shield arm wrapped around her, she’d fall off the horse with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

Jaime looked back to his father and was uncertain if he was worrying for the girl’s health or wondering why she was leaning against Clegane. Even under the circumstances, propriety would dictate she ride with Brienne.

Tywin finally looked back at his son, “Will she be alright?” Jaime was startled by the genuine concern in his father’s voice.

“She’s survived worse,” was the only answer he could offer.

Tywin grunted and turned to leave without parting words for his eldest son. Jaime stopped him, “What now, father?”

Tywin stood still for several moments, “I do not know.”

\--------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Three days into their journey north and the little bird still hadn’t come out of her trance. Everyone in their party was growing more and more concerned each day. She didn’t speak except to answer their questions with a yes or no, or sometimes simply a nod or shrug. The wolf never left her side.

By day she rode with Sandor and said nothing though he knew her pain must be severe. At night she shared a tent with Brienne and Ghost. She drank very little and ate even less.

On the fourth morning of riding Sandor almost didn’t believe his ears when she mumbled something.

“What did you say, little bird?”

“I didn’t think it would kill him, I just wanted to make him burn, like he burned you.”

Sandor’s heart swelled. In her dying moment she sought revenge on his behalf. He cleared his throat, “It wasn’t _him_ anymore, little bird, though I’m glad you burned him all the same.”

She was quiet again until they camped that evening, “Ser Jaime, do you know if Theon’s body was found?”

Jaime was also shocked for a moment before answering, “It was, and given the final honors he deserved.” Sandor was there for the burial at sea, in line with the traditions of Theon’s people. It felt wrong to do it without Sansa, but it seemed equally wrong to let his burned and battered body lay around waiting for someone who might never return.

Sansa nodded, “Thank you.”

And so it was each of the next few days. She spoke once or twice of her own volition, as if any more discussion was too exhausting. She cradled her torso, clearly pained by the cracked ribs every time she spoke, ate, or even breathed, but she uttered not a single complaint. When no one was looking, Sandor would press a chaste kiss to her temple or cheek. He wanted desperately to scoop her up in his strong arms and hold her until she was well again. With too many eyes around them he had to settle for the occasional stolen kiss or squeeze of her hand, but either that or the mere passage of time seemed to be working as Sansa seemed a little better each day.

By the time they reached the Inn at the Crossroads the afternoon of the eighth day, Sansa was back to her normal self, emotionally, but still obviously in pain. Sandor knew cracked ribs could take up to two moons to fully heal, and that was with staying abed for most of the recovery.

The Lannister party was already at the inn when they arrived. Their armies made camp in the surrounding lands, but the lords and commanders went directly to the inn.

Ser Addam approached Jaime, but Sandor couldn’t hear what the men said.

Jaime walked over to Sandor and Sansa, “My lady, your sister is locked in one of the rooms for her own protection. She has tried numerous times to escape… anytime they extend her a bit of latitude.”

“I understand, Ser Jaime. I’d like to speak to Ser Addam.” Jaime extended his arm and helped Sansa walk to the middle-aged commander, Sandor and Brienne following closely.

“Ser Addam, I wish to thank you for getting my sister here safely, I know she can be a handful.”

“It was my pleasure, your grace.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t, but your courtesy is appreciated, as well as your service. Perhaps you’d wish to dine with me and my companions this evening. I’d like to hear how Lord Tyrion and Thoros are faring with their recovery, as well as your own men.”

The man blushed, “That _would_ certainly be a pleasure, my lady… if you’re up for it.”

Sansa nodded and smiled, “I hope to be. Would you be so kind as to lead me to my sister’s room now, Ser?” Addam nodded and took her arm after Jaime released it.

Sandor stepped forward, “My lady, your sister was rather wild when I last saw her, and not entirely approving of your involvement with Tywin Lannister. I suggest you allow myself or Ser Brienne to join you in meeting your sister.”

Sansa turned to him, “Thank you, Clegane, for looking out for my safety. However I think I must do this alone if I’m to regain my sister’s trust.”

As if on cue, Ghost nuzzled her hand. She smiled weakly, “Well, almost alone.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Arya**

Arya paced the dank room like a caged tiger in a traveling show. She hated this place. This was the place where everything changed for her. The place where her childhood ended, where a permanent wedge was driven between her and her sister, not that they were ever close before then.

This is where they’d been when Arya’s wolf, Nymeria, attacked Joffrey when he’d threatened to hurt Arya and her friend Mycah, the butcher’s son. Sansa, the lovesick fool, lied about Joffrey’s role in the fight. Arya had to chase off Nymeria for her own protection, and the Hound was ordered to find and kill Mycah – if only the big bastard wasn’t so good at his job. Then father killed Sansa’s wolf, Lady, who wasn’t even involved in any of it, just to appease Cersei.

_Sansa cried for days, but it was her own fault for lying about Joffrey!_

Arya heard the sound of horses approaching and knew her sister and her armies had arrived. Arya couldn’t wait for Sansa to come see her, she wouldn’t even give her sister a chance to talk, to try to explain why she was fighting with the Lannisters, why she had Jaime and Tyrion in her service, why she let them call her Queen when she had betrayed her own family.

Of course, the Hound explained everything to Arya, told her about her sister’s troubles, all of which it sounded like she had asked for, though didn’t necessarily deserve. But none of it justified her decision to ally with Tywin Lannister – the man behind all the tragedy that befell their family in the past several years; the man who set Gregor Clegane loose at Harrenhal and the Riverlands; the man who sired Cersei Lannister who had their father executed for doing nothing but speaking the truth about her disgusting son Joffrey.

Arya had carefully organized her arguments over the last days of travel. She knew exactly what to say to Sansa to prove she’d been wrong about so many things. She was ready when she heard footsteps coming down the hall, ready when she heard a key turn the lock to her door, ready when the door opened, and Ser Addam stepped into the room…

But the moment her sister appeared from behind the tall knight, everything Arya had thought to say escaped her mind like pigeons chased off by a dog.

Arya felt her mouth open, but no words came. She stared at the woman before her. She stood at least a head taller than Arya, and if it weren’t for her snow-white skin and dark copper hair Arya would not have believed it was her sister. She was dressed like a warrior, or perhaps an assassin.

Addam stepped out quietly, but still neither sister spoke. Arya just took in her sister’s appearance as she did the same to her.

_She looks like mother, but taller, and harder._

Somehow Arya was expecting her sister to enter in a swirl of blue skirts and an empty smile on her face. The person before her defied every expectation.

Still stunned, Arya didn’t notice the tears welling in her sister’s eyes until she spoke, “I’m so sorry, Arya. For everything.”

She covered her mouth with her left hand while her right cradled her ribs. Unaware of her body’s movement, Arya was suddenly hugging her sister and sobbing into her chest. Sansa stroked her hair the way mother used to.

All the tears both women had held in for years escaped as they sunk to their knees and sobbed into each other’s hair and clothes, breathing in each other’s familiar scent, touching cheeks and hair and hands and shoulders to be sure they were really there, that this wasn’t a dream.

Finally Sansa was able to speak, “You’ve gotten so big. You’re a woman now… the last time I saw you, you were a little girl, now you’re a woman!”

“Me?!” Arya laughed, “You’re nearly as tall as Brienne.”

“That is an exaggeration, but yes I suppose I kept growing at an age when most women are done.”

“No wonder the Hound likes you, he won’t have to bend as far to kiss you.”

Sansa blushed, “He told you about us?”

Arya knitted her brow, “No… there’s an _us_? With you and the Hound?”

Sansa chuckled, “His name is Sandor, or Clegane if you prefer, and yes there is an ‘us’, I suppose you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Why, who else knows?!”

“Only the Northmen.”

“That’s _everyone_!”

“I mean our allies don’t know… then again I’m not sure they truly are our allies.”

Arya remembered all the things she intended to say to her sister, “They betrayed you then? Tywin Lannister? I should’ve fucking killed him.”

“No, Arya, Tywin kept his word. Why do you think you are here? Do you think he’d release a trueborn Stark if he viewed her sister as an enemy?”

Arya shook her head. There were too many questions she had about how Sansa came to side with the Old Lion, but they’d have to wait, “Then why do you say you aren’t sure about your allies?”

Sansa sighed, “Because Cersei is still the Queen, and Cersei wants me dead… nearly succeeded,” Sansa squeezed her ribs again.

Arya nodded at the source of her sister’s pain, “What happened anyway?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Well in the past moon I’ve learned that you wiped out the Boltons, killed the Night King, and killed the Dragon Queen. Is it less believable than all that?”

“I suppose not…” Sansa told her sister about her trial in King’s Landing, then her trial by combat.

“You killed Gregor Clegane?!”

“I’m not certain it still _was_ Gregor Clegane, but yes.”

“And threw his head at Cersei Lannister?”

Sansa nodded shyly, seemingly ashamed of her crude behavior.

Arya was speechless for several moments, then a chuckle burst out, then another… and another… and before she knew it, she was on the floor laughing uncontrollably.

Soon her sister joined in the hysteria, but winced with every laugh, “Stop Arya, it hurts so bad to laugh… I have cracked ribs.”

“I’m sorry… I can’t…” she managed to utter between cackles.

Sansa’s alternating peals of laughter and whimpers of pain only made Arya even more delirious, “I’m sorry… Oh Gods, I’d give anything to have seen that! What did she look like?”

Sansa wiped tears from her eyes, “Like someone had shit in her mouth.”

“BAH!” Arya erupted, “Stop, stop, I’m going to piss myself!”

“Good! It’s no worse than you deserve!” Sansa couldn’t control her laughter any better than her little sister.

Ghost was unsure which sister needed his attention, as he alternated licking each’s face and neck. “That tickles, boy!” Arya exclaimed.

After several minutes of laughter both sisters were able to compose themselves, Sansa was laying on her back, “Help me up! Gods, I think I cracked more ribs.”

With gentleness Arya rarely expended on anyone, Arya helped her sister sit up, then rise and walk to the bed where she eased her back down. They sat in comfortable silence for a few more minutes before Arya whispered, “Is what Clegane said true? About the way Joffrey treated you, then Baelish, then Ramsay?”

Sansa looked toward the hearth, “If Sandor said it, it’s true.”

Arya swallowed, sensing her sister was uncomfortable, “He didn’t give me any details, so you know… just hinted that things were… well, that they were rough for you.”

Sansa nodded, “Yes, though I know things must have been bad for you as well. Perhaps someday we’ll share our tales with one another.”

“Wasn’t too bad for me… I thought it was, but… well, not like I imagine it was for you.”

Sansa clasped her hands, “This war has been hard on all of us, Arya. No one has come through it unscathed. Sandor, Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion… they’ve all suffered. I need you to hear what I say now, Arya. I know you won’t be able to trust them overnight. Believe me, I didn’t trust them all overnight. But they have all saved me, they have all helped me, fought for me, counseled me. Do not fault them for where they were born or the families they were born into. Did you know Sandor was only twelve when he put himself in Tywin Lannister’s service? And he did it to escape a horrible family situation. He knew no other option, no other life. Tyrion was ridiculed his entire life, including by his own sister and father. He’s been treated cruelly, yet it did not make him cruel. Jaime has made many unwise choices, but he also made a choice that saved millions of people and probably more. When he lost his sword hand, he had every reason to become bitter, but he came into my service, going above and beyond an oath he made to our mother. He will protect you just as fiercely, as will Brienne, if you let them…”

Arya doubted she’d ever trust them. Brienne and the Hound were alright, but Tyrion and Jaime Lannister – Cersei’s brothers?

“Alright Sansa, I’ll give them a chance, but you know if any of them hurts me or you I’m going to run my Needle through their eye.”

Sansa smiled, “You still have it? Sandor said you almost got him killed over that sword.”

“He exaggerated,” Arya waved a hand, “It was five on two and he’s the bloody Hound… we were never in danger.”

Sansa arched an eyebrow at Arya. It reminded Arya of a look her father gave her often when she lied but he chose not to call her on it.

“If we let you out of this room will you promise not to kill anyone?”

Arya rolled her eyes but nodded, “Not unless they try to kill me first.”

“Fair enough… oh, I almost forgot, that includes Petyr Baelish.”

“What?! He’s here? Alive?”

“Yes and yes, but hopefully not for long. But listen, if Sandor can resist the urge to kill him, so can you.”

Arya eyed her sister skeptically, “You’re right, he’s not the Hound anymore…”

\------------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Seeing the Stark sisters together at the supper table that evening made Sandor’s chest warm and his head light. Brienne and Jaime looked equally pleased, finally seeing both women they swore to protect alive and well, or as well as could be expected.

Whatever had transpired behind closed doors seemed to pacify the little wolf, as she tolerated the presence of not only Jaime but the Lannister guards.

All the Northern lords and commanders came by to welcome Arya back and to extend their gratitude to Sansa for her valor during the battle and subsequently in King’s Landing. Sansa, as usual, was uncomfortable with the attention, but gracious.

Eventually her uncle Edmure Tully worked up the courage to address his nieces. Sansa let him stew for a while before choosing to put the past to bed, “Uncle, my sister and I have too little family left to hold onto old grudges. Everyone has made difficult decisions in the past few years, myself included. I do not bear you any ill will for choosing to save your people; I’d be quite the hypocrite if I did.” She beamed warmly at her uncle, who finally looked at ease.

When Littlefinger joined their merry table, the little wolf stared daggers at him.

“Lady Arya, you may not remember me from our time—”

“I remember you, _Littlefinger_.”

The man smiled awkwardly but spoke politely, “I am so pleased to see you here. I know how important it was to your dear mother that both her daughters be returned to their home.”

“Aye? Is that why you were so eager to return Sansa to our home while the Boltons still held it?”

“Arya!” Sansa scolded.

“It’s alright, your grace, I’m glad you can add another protector to your list… For the record, Lady Arya, my involvement in your sister’s marriage to Ramsay Bolton has been a source of deep shame and regret for me. I only wish to someday atone for my past indiscretions.”

“I bet you do,” she raised her brows.

_Gods, she sounds like me._

“Lord Baelish, I hope you will excuse my sister’s insolence. To survive the past few years she’s no doubt had to develop a keen sense of suspicion, not to mention abandon her ladylike courtesies.”

Arya rolled her eyes, and Sandor battled the grin that tried to curl his lips.

Littlefinger nodded, “Of course, your grace. I hope in time I can also earn your sister’s trust. As you so wisely said, holding onto past grudges is rarely worth the effort, especially in regards one’s family.”

“True, but you aren’t our family,” Arya clearly never learned how to keep her mouth shut, and for once Sandor was glad for it.

“My apologies, again, for my unintended insult. My deep love and friendship for your mother makes me sometimes look at her children as if they were my own nieces.”

Sandor’s skin crawled. _Nieces you like to fuck?_

To Sandor’s disappointment Sansa replied to Baelish with a sugar-sweet smile. The type she used to use to placate Joffrey. Back then she had no other weapons but her smile and her pretty words, now she had armies at her disposal.

_But would her Uncle side with her or Baelish? What about Tywin Lannister?_

Regrettably Sandor understood why she couldn’t act against Littlefinger yet. With the Knights of the Vale following his command the North alone could not defeat him. Nor could Sansa afford to waste precious lives fighting them just to get to Baelish when soon a bigger threat by the name of Cersei Lannister might be marching on Winterfell with her army of sellswords and Squids.

Sandor came back to the conversation. Sansa was speaking, “Lord Baelish, I had hoped to have the opportunity to break my fast with you on the morrow, along with some of your senior Knights. I’m very interested in hearing the developments from the Vale. Would this be agreeable?”

Baelish feigned regret, “I’m sorry, your grace, but we will depart at dawn for the Eyrie. Unfortunately our maester sent me a raven while I was at Casterly Rock. Our dear Lord Robert has taken a turn for the worse. I did not want to burden you with this knowledge, but nor do I wish to withhold it, I know you care so deeply for your young cousin.”

Something flashed across Sansa’s eyes. _Anger? Sadness? Suspicion? …_

“That is terrible news, Lord Baelish. Of course you must return at once. I do hope you will send correspondence to appraise me of the situation.”

“I will, your grace. It will be a rare pleasure to write you, during an otherwise bleak time. Of course, it goes without saying that you’re welcome to join us and stay as our guest.”

_Over my dead body…_

“Would that I could, Lord Baelish. I fear the tenuous situation with Cersei Lannister will require my immediate attention. I’ve been gone long enough, but I will give you a note to deliver to my cousin – poor substitute for a visit, but it must needs suffice.”

Baelish bowed, “Then I will see you briefly in the morning to bid you farewell. Good evening your grace, Lady Arya.” He kissed Sansa’s hand and headed off to his room.

Sansa yawned, “I fear I’m rather tired myself.” She rose and Sandor did the same, “It’s quite alright, Clegane. I had hoped you and Arya might take the opportunity to catch up. Ser Brienne, would you kindly see me to my room?”

Sandor narrowed his eyes at her, having the distinct feeling he was being manipulated, “As it please you, my lady.”

\---------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

“Are you sure about this, Lady Sansa?”

_Gods, why must Brienne always be so proper?_

“I am, Brienne. If anyone asks, _including_ Sandor or Arya, I’m asleep in my room and not to be disturbed.”

Brienne shook her head, “I hope you know what you’re doing. If I hear you scream, I _will_ come in there.”

“I’d expect no less.”

Sansa crept into the room she knew to be Petyr’s. She wasn’t sure she could go through with what she must do, but this would be her only opportunity to try. She tiptoed to his bed where he slept under piles of furs. He looked just as he had all the nights he’d slept in her bed in the Eyrie: laying on his back, straight as a board, fingers laced over his belly. Even in slumber he had complete control over his body. Never once had he snored or rolled over onto his side or stomach. It was as unnerving as everything else about the man. She hated that she must do it this way, but she needed direct access to the Knights of the Vale _without_ going to the Vale… if it couldn’t be here then she’d need to find a reason for them to travel to Winterfell with Petyr and her cousin.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the covers and crawled beside him, also laying on her back, as that was the only way she could lay somewhat comfortably due to her injuries. She ran a finger lazily down his bare arm. He stirred and took only a moment to recognize her, then a feline grin appeared on his thin lips.

“Sansa.”

“Petyr.”

He turned to face her, resting on one elbow. He stroked her cheek gently, “This is an unexpected but quite pleasant surprise, sweetling.”

“Petyr, it’s been torture without you.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow suspiciously, “You seem rather content with your current companions, and rather bitter with me.”

“I _am_ bitter with you! You’re the reason I was married to that monster… but you’re also the reason I have my home back. I understand why you did it, I know it was all part of your plan, though I wish you’d have done something to protect me from him, Petyr. I thought you loved me.”

“Sweetling I did… I _do_. I had no idea the extent of his depravity, I swear it to you. Sansa I’m so sorry, you must believe that! Please let me make it up to you!”

“That’s what I hoped to speak with you about tomorrow, else I’d not be in your bed right now I can assure you… if we were ever found...”

“No one will bother us, my love. Now what did you wish to speak with me about?”

“I miss you; I’m so tired of being alone. I’ve had to pass up so many proposals knowing there is only one man for me.”

He eyed her a moment and she realized she was over-playing her hand.

“I know what you’re thinking. I was so stupid, Petyr. I didn’t appreciate what I had with you. I didn’t appreciate how good you were to me. I was young and inexperienced, I still dreamed of blond-haired Knights in shining armor… I didn’t realize it is a strong mind, not strong arms, that will protect me.”

Her words worked as he smiled and kissed her lips gently. He then whispered against her lips, using the tone he always thought was so seductive, “That’s what you want, Sansa? For me to protect you?”

She ran her fingers through his hair, “No… for us to protect each other. The south is ash. We can unite the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and even the West… I know Tywin Lannister will side with his sons over his daughter; he’ll side with you and me and Uncle Edmure over that deranged Queen.”

“You learned to play the game, sweetling.”

She smiled and kissed him, “I learned from you… only like so much else I didn’t realize until I left you.”

She leaned back and continued, “Though I hate playing it, truly. I want only peace and prosperity, and I know you want the same.”

“There is more that I want…” he buried his face in her hair, inhaling deeply.

“I know what you want Petyr. Why did you not ask me before? Why did you need to ship me off to that leech?” she forced her lower lip into a pout, and he took the bait, nibbling it passionately.

“The time wasn’t right, sweetling. I needed to get a Stark back in Winterfell. I’m so sorry, but I promise I only acted for your best interest. If I’d have known…”

_You’d have done the same damned thing…_

“Hush Petyr, I don’t want to be angry anymore. Just promise you’ll never leave me in the dark again. I want to be partners, true partners in every sense of the word.”

“Sansa, nothing would bring me more joy,” he brushed a finger over her right breast, and she hated how her own body betrayed her as her nipple hardened under his light caress even as bile rose in her throat. His other hand dusted across her thigh.

“Petyr,” she moaned as he claimed her mouth with his.

_Just one minute… just endure this one minute…_

“Sansa, my love…”

“Gods, Petyr, I’ve missed you.”

His finger moved to her curls, but she pushed him away, “No, Petyr. Not like this.”

“But Sansa—”

“I know. I know we’ve done it before, but I’m hurting, Petyr. It hurts to breathe; I can’t even imagine doing _that_ …”

“I can be gentle, Sansa.”

“No… it isn’t just that…”

He looked at her curiously, “What is it, my love?”

She willed tears into her eyes and turned her head in shame, “Gods, I shouldn’t have said anything… you won’t want me anymore.”

“Sweetling, nothing could make me stop wanting you. Tell me what troubles you.”

She resisted a few more seconds before exhaling a small whimper, “Cersei’s guards… while I was in the Black Cells… I tried to fight them but…”

“Shh…” he wrapped his arms around her, “It’s alright, love.”

“It’s not just that Petyr, I’m not the beautiful girl you knew in the Vale… I—”

“Hush, none of that now. Nothing could make you ugly in my eyes.”

She chewed her lip innocently, “Do you mean that?”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have rushed you my dear. I wish I could undo every horrible thing that you’ve had to endure, but I’m afraid all I can do is promise that once you are mine no one will ever hurt you again.”

“Oh, Petyr.”

He kissed her gently and brushed stray hairs off her forehead, “My beautiful Tully girl.”

“But Petyr, we will have to wait… you need to tend to poor Robert, and I must tend to Winterfell, not to mention myself… do you suppose when Robert is feeling better you can come see me at Winterfell? I’d love to see my dear cousin as well, once he’s fit enough to travel.”

“Of course, that sounds like a wonderful idea! And then we can announce our betrothal.”

_Good, now you’ll tell the maester to stop poisoning Robert, so you can get to Winterfell all the sooner._

She kissed him, “And then wed before the weirwood tree the following night.”

“My, you do want to move fast…”

She chewed her lip again, “I suppose it makes me sound rather forward…”

“Not at all, we’ve known each other for years. Long courtships are for souls who don’t already know they’re meant to be together.”

She smiled, “I’m glad we’re in agreement, _husband_.”

He laughed, “A man could get used to hearing that word from your lovely lips.”

He helped her to rise and walked her to the door. He checked that the hallway was clear, which it was but for Brienne standing outside her door.

“It’s alright, Petyr, she knows,” Sansa assured him, before scampering to her room as fast as she could with her injuries.

Sansa laid in bed that night feeling more shame than pride. For the first time in her life she was truly playing the game, though it gave her no joy. She thought of it as a necessary evil to protect her people. She desperately wished Tyrion were there to counsel her but he and Thoros would not be ready to depart Casterly Rock for another sennight at least. It was early in the morning before she fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hate our girl!


	94. The Weight

**Sansa**

The rest of the journey to Winterfell was a time of reflection and mixed emotions for Sansa. She was profoundly saddened by the deaths of Theon and Ser Beric – two members of her pack of mangy mutts as she lovingly referred to her friends. But she had gotten her sister back. There was another wolf – another trueborn Stark – and they were going home.

In truth, Theon’s death didn’t make her as sad as she would have expected. He had been broken by Ramsay, as had Sansa herself, but where Sansa found new purpose and new friends, Theon never truly recovered from his time as Reek. He lived only to serve Sansa, to atone for his past sins against her house, but he would never forgive himself. He avoided even small joys as if he didn’t deserve any happiness. Sansa thought back to a time not so long ago when she made Theon promise to look after her son should she die. At the time she felt certain Ramsay would kill her. Now it gave Sansa a small measure of peace to know that someone who knew Ben in his life here – as short as it was – was now in the dark place with him. And she had no doubt that’s where Theon went. His betrayal of her family was severe but short-lived. He paid for his crimes in blood a hundred times over, then in service to her at least as much.

As Sansa felt Sandor’s strong arms on either side of hers while they rode, she wondered if Theon felt peace knowing Sansa didn’t need him as she had in those initial months after their captivity. There was a time that only Theon’s presence could soothe her waking and sleeping nightmares. Though he was never eloquent – and even less so after his time as _Reek_ – he was the one whose words helped her maintain her threadbare sanity when life threatened to pull at the loose end. He tethered her to the earth when she thought she might break off and float away like dandelion seeds. He pulled her from the abyss when she lost herself for hours or days on end. When she shattered like an icicle fallen from the eaves, he patiently melted her back together. 

But now she didn’t fall apart as often. She felt more whole and knew it was in no small part thanks to the steadfast presence of Sandor Clegane. Before he arrived at Winterfell, she felt like a mummer playing the part of a strong queen while on the inside she was a puddle of fear and self-doubt. But as their relationship deepened, she felt she took some of his courage like a leech pulling blood. Her nightmares weren’t as frequent, her lost time didn’t last so long. She looked down at the large, scarred hands in front of her holding the reins. She traced a knuckle, in awe of how unbreakable it felt compared to her fragile bones. No wonder Sandor thought of her as a little bird – to someone as strong and solid as he she must seem as hollow-boned and fragile as a bird. She knew he was looking down at the place their hands met, and it only now occurred to her that, in her own despair, she’d been ignoring his feelings. He must be mourning his friend, Ser Beric. Brienne told Sansa of his death one night while helping Sansa change. She knew Sandor would feel terribly guilt for indirectly causing it.

“Ser Beric,” she said, and those two words encapsulated a hundred statements and questions that didn’t need to be spoken between two people who’d inexplicably come to be as hand in glove.

“Aye,” he responded after a few moments.

She nodded, “At peace now, I know this.”

“Aye,” he said again, but she could hear the lump in his throat.

“He was a good friend,” she said, knowing his response would be the same single word answer, and it was.

Several minutes passed and Sansa thought the conversation – if it could be described as such – was over, until Sandor spoke quietly, for only Sansa to hear, “He saved me. From the only death I fear.”

Sansa wasn’t sure she understood but assumed he was referring to something that happened during the battle. She knew not to press for more details. Sandor hid his sorrow behind layers of anger and contempt, but when it came to the surface, she knew not to push him to explore it.

Instead she offered what she hoped would be a reassurance, “If he did, it was because he was meant to.”

Instead of an affirmation she got a grunt. She slid her hand under his and let him clasp it. She knew in these earnest moments he took strength not from gentle caresses and words of comfort, but from having a purpose to serve. She took a deep breath and leaned fully against his chest, knowing he would welcome the weight.

\----------------------------------------

**Sandor**

The first few days of their journey had been filled with dread until Sansa came out of her trance. Then he was dreading the reunion of the wolf sisters. But after departing the Inn at the Crossroads he missed the worry for it was an effective distraction from all the fuckery that had transpired in too short a time. Nearly losing Sansa – again. Watching what was once his brother almost kill the woman Sandor loved was a nightmare he could never have imagined. He would die a thousand fiery deaths to avoid ever seeing something so disturbing again, but unfortunately, he could not erase the memory from his mind’s eye. Once, the image of Sansa coughing on her own blood in the snowy lichyard haunted Sandor’s dreams, but he knew that vision of terror had been replaced.

As traumatic as it had been though, there was no shortage of other things tormenting his mind. Beric’s last words troubled Sandor in an unexpected way. _“Sandor, fire,”_ the knight had shouted as the dragon bore down on them.

_Sandor, fire._

_Sandor… fire…_

_Fire…_

_Fire._

The fire-worshipping bastard who saw things in the flames that led him north, which led Sandor north, which led Sandor to Winterfell… to Sansa. His last word before dying was “fire” – but not in reference to the flames he revered but a command to Sandor: pull the trigger.

And what if Sandor _had_ pulled the trigger one second sooner, or one second later – would it have altered the trajectory of the beast just enough that Beric would have been spared?

Sansa, who had been quiet all afternoon, suddenly spoke, “Ser Beric,” she said definitively.

“Aye,” was all he could bring himself to say, and it was far short of what the man deserved to have said about him.

She nodded, “At peace now, I know this.”

He knew she was right, but it didn’t lessen Sandor’s guilt or confusion. He fought back the swell of emotion that threatened to break his voice, “Aye.”

“He was a good friend,” she said, after some time.

_He was a good friend. He was a good man. He didn’t treat me like a monster, nor did he pity me. If it wasn’t for him, I’m not sure I’d know what the word ‘friend’ truly means…_

But all those words died on his tongue. Minute passed, and he felt like a coward for not being able to express what Beric had been to him. But he refused to let the man die without at least one person knowing what he’d done in his last minutes of life, “He saved me. From the only death I fear.”

“If he did, it was because he was meant to,” her response was typical Sansa wisdom, yet it shook Sandor to his core.

He grunted his reply, it was all he could muster. Beric used to say the Lord of Light had a plan for him, that Thoros was able to revive him time after time because he had some _destiny_ to fulfill.

_Was saving me his destiny? And if so, why? Why is my life worth more than his? He was an honorable man – he fought to defend the innocent, to bring some bit of justice to the cruel world. All I ever did was earn good coin for protecting cunts like Joffrey Baratheon. Why should I live while Beric Dondarrion dies?_

A small hand sought his, and he squeezed it to remind himself he was still here, Sandor Clegane and not the Hound, who was unworthy of anyone’s sacrifice. Sansa seemed tired as she leaned back against him. He straightened a bit to support her weight, a weight he’d carry to the furthest corner of the continent and back again, a thousand times over, if that was the only way to be worthy of this borrowed life.


	95. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter

**Jaime**

It was an odd feeling to ride into to the dreary, snow-covered Northern fortress and breathe a sigh of relief, but that’s exactly what Jaime Lannister did the moment the gray and white banners came into view.

_Home._

He took a moment to look at his odd lot of companions and realized they all shared his sentiment. As if feeling his eyes on her, Brienne turned her head just enough to meet his eyes, and Jaime saw the corner of her mouth rise, as subtle as the curve on a dagger, and equally deadly.

Riding through the gates they were all met with cheers. By now word had reached Winterfell of the army’s victory over the Dragon Queen’s army, and of Sansa’s victory over the monster was once called the Mountain.

Sansa was still riding with her shield as her body was too battered and weak to control a horse. Arya was riding Sansa’s mount, Lightning, and Jaime’s road-weary mind mused that the well-built mare would make a fine mate for his father’s warhorse, Thunder. _Thunder and Lightning._ Jaime chuckled to himself but thought best not to let his queen know his thoughts. Despite Tywin staying true to his word, he knew there was no warmth between Sansa and his father, and he could hardly blame her.

Jaime watched knowingly as Arya dismounted near the stables while a familiar figure snuck up behind her. The girl spun around with cat-like reflexes and nearly drove her thin sword through the man before recognizing the face of her brother Jon.

After recovering from the shock of his near-death experience Jon smiled at her. The girl was ecstatic and even Clegane couldn’t help but grin at witnessing the reunion of the two Stark siblings who, by Sansa’s telling, had been the closest during their youth. After a long hug, Jon pulled back and mussed her hair as if she was still the eleven-year-old girl he parted with all those years ago.

She swatted his hand away playfully, “I didn’t know you’d be here! Sansa said you would depart for the Wall before we arrived back!”

Jon grinned, “We wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Well, mission accomplished!” Arya gave him a friendly but not gentle punch in the shoulder.

He nodded, “I’ll return there when I can, but I couldn’t miss the opportunity to see my little sister. Moreover, I keep hearing about what a great fighter you are, and I needed to see for myself.”

“Let’s have a go then!”

Jon laughed, “You’ve been riding hard for what, a moon? I think you should rest first.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Will an enemy let me rest after I’ve ridden hard to meet him in battle?”

Jon smirked, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

Arya grinned proudly, clearly taking his words as a compliment.

“Hah! Alright, let me at least see Sansa. I promise first thing tomorrow we’ll spar,” Jon chuckled.

“Fine, but don’t expect me to go easy on you.”

As if appearing on command Sansa approached, leaning heavily on Clegane’s large arm. Ghost, who’d been her constant shadow these past weeks bounded for his master, clearly knowing that while he served all the Starks, there was one to whom he was irrevocably bound.

Ghost was overjoyed to be reunited with Jon, so Sansa had to patiently wait her turn to embrace her brother. Then the four Starks – three human and one direwolf – walked side-by-side to the family keep, oblivious to the effect they were having on those around them. Jaime took in the faces of the onlookers: they beamed widely at seeing three of the six Stark siblings alive and together for the first time since King Robert came to Winterfell those many years ago.

\---------------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Having two of her siblings back was a salve for Sana’s battle-weary soul. She sat in her solar as a quiet observer, basking in the comfort of Jon and Arya’s voices and giggles as they exchanged all the stories with one another that Sansa knew by now. Arya and Jon had a relaxed ease with one another that Sansa never had with either of them until more recently. Though Sansa was more like both of them than she’d ever been in the past, it was clear that Jon and Arya were like matching pieces of a puzzle. They had complimented each other for as long as Sansa could remember, fitting together snugly, whereas Sansa’s edges and corners needed to be worn and bent over time before she fit with either of them.

Reflecting on her other siblings Sansa realized she never really fit with any of them, at least when they were all children. Bran was always exploring and climbing. He was similar to Arya in that way, but without her natural aptitude for fighting. Bran was soft-hearted in a way Arya never was, but curious and adventurous in a way Sansa had never been.

Rickon was too young to show much of a personality when Sansa departed Winterfell, but he had always been close to her. There was such an age difference between them, though, that he felt more like a son or nephew to her than a brother.

Robb and Sansa shared some similarities in the way they spoke and carried themselves – never forgetting their courtesies, always accepting the fact they would grow up and serve their family dutifully, but Robb was so brave. He led his people to war before his twentieth nameday with absolutely no battle experience. He did it to avenge their honorable father. He bested the Lannister lions in battle multiple times, fighting fearlessly beside Grey Wind.

Noticing her melancholy her siblings asked what was on her mind. After she shared her thoughts, she felt ashamed that each of her siblings had this inherent courage that she lacked. She thought back to her youth – following her mother around trying to be the perfect lady, aspiring to be a pretty wife on the arm of a handsome lord husband.

Arya and Jon stared at each other with curious expressions on their faces.

“What?” Sansa finally asked.

Jon rubbed his eyes and chuckled, “Sansa, do you realize everything you said about Robb could be said about you?”

She scoffed at him, “Perhaps there are parallels, yes, but only after I was hardened by the world. Robb was born brave, born selfless.”

Jon chuckled, “No he wasn’t! You think Robb was fearless leading the North into war? He was pissing himself! He wrote me letters telling me of all his fears, all his doubts. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, Sansa, it’s the choice to stand firm even when every bone in your body wants to run and hide. And selfless? At times, yes, but you do realize he was undone by a purely selfish act – he chose to marry for love, breaking a vow he’d made, or have you forgotten?”

Sansa was thunderstruck. Was she really like her brother Robb – the _Young Wolf_ who was feared by all his enemies and respected by all his people, at least until the end?

_No, I can’t be. I was a chirping little bird; a silly girl dreaming of handsome knights and love songs._

She shook her head, “You’re wrong Jon. Robb was destined for greatness. I fell into it out of necessity.”

Again her brother laughed, “Robb was destined to be the Lord of Winterfell. To marry a beautiful maiden and make heirs. To take father’s place. To never see war unless it was thrust upon him. To spend each day as caretaker for the North, overseeing grain stores and settling land disputes between farmers. Just because we were boys who enjoyed swordplay doesn’t mean we lusted for battle. He wanted a wife, children. His dreams were not so far from yours, and like you the Gods had other plans for him. But you’re smarter than Robb ever was, Sansa. I loved Robb and miss him every day, but he made mistakes. He put trust in the wrong places. He made enemies of his allies, whereas you make allies of your enemies.” Suddenly Jon looked rather melancholy himself, “Robb would be proud of you. You’ve done what he could not. You’ve made the decisions that he could not.”

Sansa nodded, excusing herself to return to her chambers to rest.

Jon’s words didn’t have the mollifying effect he intended. Instead Sansa felt troubled, conflicted, _confused_. Since escaping the Boltons she felt as if every ‘brave’ deed was accidental, and every ruthless act was simple necessity. She felt as though through all these trials – all these battles – she was merely playing a role. That someday war would all be over, there would be never-ending peace, and she could go back to being Lady Sansa, delicate and sweet, in colorful dresses, spending her days sewing and sipping tea, reading poetry, singing, taking walks in the gardens. As much as she often looked back on that version of herself with disdain, a large part of her longed for that life – for the contentment that exists only for people who are oblivious to the world’s cruelty.

Like a dry leaf she watched that Sansa crunch under foot until it was nothing but dust, ready to blow away in the slightest breeze.

She would never be that girl again and the realization was heavy and dark like a raincloud. The path before her seemed no smoother than it was before the Night King and Dragon Queen were vanquished. Cersei Lannister still sat the Iron Throne, and if she too was somehow defeated, someone just as bad would take her place, of that Sansa was certain. Even if there was a brief reprieve from the mad rulers, it would be an inept ruler, like King Robert – someone not evil, perhaps, but not suited to ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Was the throne itself cursed? Did it bring out the worst in any who sat in it? Or was it that only undeserving people sought it to begin with. Sansa suspected it was the latter. She knew of Robert’s reputation for whoring and drinking even before he took the throne. She knew from Jaime that Cersei always had a coldness about her, a compassionless heart, at least since their mother died. And of course it was widely known that Targaryens were born mad as often as they were born sane.

_No, as sure as winter is cold, there will always be an unworthy ruler on the Iron Throne. And as long as there is an unworthy ruler on the Iron Throne, the North will need a brave and stern Queen, not a mild-mannered Lady._

It was deep in this very thought that Sandor found her, entering her bedchamber and joining her where she stood looking out the window.

His warm hands stroked her upper arms as his chin perched atop her head.

“Will it ever end?” she whispered, and whether she meant the question for him or for some Gods that might be listening, she was not sure.

It was Sandor that answered with his usual brevity and candor, “No.”

She sighed, “I’m tired.”

“I know.”

He helped her to bed even though it was plain in his gray eyes that he knew the type of tired she was couldn't be helped by sleep.


	96. Sparring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bittersweet reunion

**Sandor**

The boy was good, there was no doubt about it.

Sandor had of course seen Jon fight before, during the Long Night – but he had no time to actually observe anyone else, so focused was he on not dying.

Today he watched Jon Stark spar with various men, and none could match his speed and agility. His footwork was most admirable, matched only by Jaime, though Jon had the advantage in sword work that Jaime’s left hand could never best.

Brienne was a good match for him. Standing nearly a head taller than the lad she had the size and reach advantage, and she – like Sandor – was surprisingly light-footed, but ultimately Jon was able to turn his size into an advantage, finding openings under her swing to jab and slice at her ribs.

The pair actually earned a round of applause which was a testament to both Jon’s skill and Brienne’s reputation within Winterfell. Jon took a break and approached Sandor, who offered him his wineskin.

“My thanks,” Jon nodded as he took a sip and caught his breath. He gestured the wineskin at Brienne, “she’s good – might be the best I’ve ever fought.”

“Aye, same for me.”

The men sat in silence a moment before Sandor asked, “Who taught you to fight – your father?”

Jon nodded, “And Ser Rodrik. And my uncle Benjen. Though the Night’s Watch has helped me improve greatly. Learning in the yard of a castle is different than learning when your life depends on it. Fighting the Free Folk, then wights and White Walkers… you can’t replicate that experience in a training yard.”

Sandor snorted, “Truer words have never been spoken.” He thought about his own early experiences with fighting. He was only a young squire but had to take up his lord’s sword. It didn’t hurt that he was of a height with the grown men, but he had only a fraction of their experience. When your options are win or die – that’s when real skill is built.

Arya finally appeared, hands on hips as she approached the pair, “You were supposed to fight _me_ , not half the fucking North!”

“Then you shouldn’t have slept in,” Jon teased.

Ten minutes later the dark-haired Stark siblings were in the training yard, and to Sandor’s surprise they put on quite a show. Where Jon’s skills with a longsword were almost unmatched, Arya was quite adept with her thin sword, Needle. She managed to evade even her nimble brother, who clearly wasn’t accustomed to fighting a smaller opponent. Several times she was able to get the tip of her blade to his ribs, stomach, or underarm – even once his neck. To his credit, Jon began to adapt to her moves and did a better job blocking, but Sandor could tell he was still going easy on his little sister, who clearly knew the same. “You’re going easy on me, brother.”

Jon rolled his eyes but nodded, and in their next bout he managed to knock Needle out of her hand with a powerful strike. Without hesitation she unsheathed her long-handled dagger and at the same moment Jon delivered what would have been a death strike with his practice sword she had her dagger to his throat. His eyes went wide before he grinned, “A draw, then?”

She sheathed her dagger, “Fine, we’ll forget the six times I had you beat and call it a draw.”

The crowd applauded both siblings and soon Arya approached Sandor, “Your turn.”

“Pfft, you’re not ready for me,” Sandor grunted.

“Then you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

“Aye, I’ve got your sister to be afraid of, if I hurt you, which I will. Unlike your brother I’ve been fighting smaller opponents my whole life, and I’ve been killing them my whole life.”

The girl just gave him a smug smile, “Fine, if the fearsome Hound is afraid of a little girl…”

“That shite won’t work on me girl, I’ve got nothing to prove.”

“Neither did Jon.”

“And perhaps you should learn something from your big brother in that regard. You’re good, girl, I’ll not lie and say you aren’t, but I’ve seen men die over their own cockiness more times than I can count. Take a lesson from your brother, and your sister for that matter – always assume your opponent can beat you – it’ll serve you well.”

She snorted, “Perhaps you should take your own advice. I traveled with you for months, don’t you remember? You didn’t think anyone could best you, and you believed it right up to the moment _Lady_ Brienne pushed you over a cliff.”

“Aye, and trust me, it was a painful way to learn that lesson. Twenty plus years of no one beating me taught me to be cocky, but even so I never underestimated an opponent until I met that fucking beast,” he nodded toward Brienne.

Arya scoffed, “Then I’m glad she beat you; you underestimated her because she doesn’t have a cock.”

“Fuck that,” he waved a hand, “I underestimated her because she was bloody _nice_ … and honorable… and naïve. Now stop arguing and listen to me, unless you want to learn the hard way.”

“I have learned the hard way; you think things have been easy for me?”

“Nothing’s been easy for anyone these past few years. But if you’ve learned, then _act like it._ ”

He stomped off, not giving her time to respond.

_Girl hasn’t changed, still a pain in my arse, still stubborn, still doesn’t listen, still talks too much._

\--------------------------------------------

More than a fortnight after Sansa and her men arrived back in Winterfell, two familiar figures showed up, looking a bit worse for wear but happy to be home.

Thoros and Tyrion didn’t want to travel by wagon so they both recuperated at Casterly Rock until the maester said they were well enough to ride. A retinue of Lannister guards had escorted them to the Inn at the Crossroads where several Northern guards had remained to accompany the two men, along with some others who had been injured, the rest of the way to Winterfell.

Sansa, Sandor, and Jaime stood just inside the South Gate when the party was spotted coming up the Kingsroad. Sandor scowled at Sansa and Jaime who looked downright giddy to be reunited with the Imp, though Sandor secretly felt similar as he awaited the bald priest.

The Imp wasted not a minute in taunting Sandor, dismounting and greeting Sansa with a warm embrace, “Hello darling, I’m home!” He winked at her as Sandor rolled his eyes. The Imp frequently teased Sandor by referring to his brief stint as Sansa’s husband.

Not to be outdone, Thoros walked straight up to Sandor, arm extended in masculine greeting until, at the last minute, he pulled Sandor into a hug, “Hello darling, I’m home!”

The courtyard was filled with laughter. Sandor shook his head, “I was hoping with head injuries you two might come back different; should’ve known I’d never be so lucky.”

The courtyard emptied, leaving only Thoros and Sandor. Though Sandor had looked forward to Thoros’ arrival, he also dreaded the conversation he knew was inevitable. Perhaps knowing Sandor wasn’t quite ready, Thoros brought up a different topic, “How is our Queen? I heard about King’s Landing…”

Sandor truly didn’t know how Sansa was. She kept her emotions locked away, even from him, so he gave the only honest answer he could, “She’s tough.”

Thoros nodded, “And you?”

“What about me?”

“Queen Cersei had your brother made into some kind of monster. I know you had little love for him—"

“I had _no_ love for him. There was no fate too cruel for my brother. I don’t thank the mad bitch but of all the grievances I have with her, her _treatment_ of my brother isn’t one – except for the fact that she used him to hurt her enemies… nothing _fair_ about using man who can’t be killed by blade.”

Thoros nodded, “And yet it was fire that killed him. Fire wielded by the Ice Queen. The same Ice Queen who thought to use fire against the Dragon Queen herself.”

“Have you a point?”

Thoros looked contemplative, “I suppose I don’t. Just trying to make sense of… everything.”

“Hmpf, don’t waste your time.”

They strolled together for a while before Sandor realized they were doing just that – walking with no destination. He summoned courage and cleared his throat, “Beric.”

“Aye, Beric.”

“Fucker was on borrowed time, I know, but I’m still… sorry… I know you and he were close.”

Thoros nodded, “He was ready, he was tired. We spoke of it. Each time I brought him back it was instantaneous, like resuscitation, so he never got to see what comes after... But when he heard Lady Sansa describe her experience during her… well, I guess you could say he rather looked forward to it.”

“ _Wanted_ it?”

The priest shrugged, “Who knows… the instinct to survive is one of the strongest there is. Even those of us who claim to be ready to die still fight to live. I’m not saying he was inviting death, but I think… well, I think he wasn’t willing it away, either.”

Sandor grunted in response. They’d made their way to the training yard and the little wolf was back at it, sparring along with some of the young guards. A few looked at her with resentment, but most seemed to admire the princess who fought like a knight. Two even seemed a bit smitten; Sandor would have to keep an eye on them.

Thoros took a long draught from his skin, and the repulsive odor of rum wafted into Sandor’s nostrils. The priest clasped him on the back as he looked toward the sky, “It’s a beautiful day, brother, and the wolves are back in Winterfell. There is no cause for grief.”


	97. Shame

**Sansa**

Two moons after departing King’s Landing, Sansa awoke to the sound of urgent knocking on her door sometime before dawn. Sandor shot up out of bed, “Bloody Hells…”

As was his custom when an unfamiliar knock was heard, he hid in Sansa’s adjoining solar as she donned her robe and answered the door. All those in the family keep knew they spent nights together, but Sansa did not want to flaunt their affair.

A young page handed her a scroll, “Urgent, m’lady.” The boy disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived.

“You can come back now.”

Sandor came back over and wrapped his arms around Sansa, “Since we’re both awake…”

She patted his chest playfully. Due to her injuries from King’s Landing, they’d only just started being intimate again in the past sennight. As patient as the man had been during her recovery, he was clearly trying to compensate for it now. They coupled each day, sometimes twice. Just yesterday she woke to find his head between her legs. The day before that he had slammed the solar door on Tyrion after court and took her on her desk with no regard for the letters that had become torn, wrinkled, or dampened under her body. Though she’d teased him about his needs she felt them just as strongly. Her own appetite was insatiable; one night as he slept, she found herself straddling him, his cock waking before his mind did.

But now even his deft lips couldn’t distract her from her fixation on the rolled scroll bearing the sigil of House Arryn.

Sandor continued kissing her neck as she read, his morning arousal overcoming any curiosity he would ordinarily have at the arrival of an urgent message.

> _Queen Sansa,  
>   
> _
> 
> _It is with deep remorse that I write to inform you of the passing of our beloved Robert Arryn, Lord of the Vale._
> 
> _He died last night after having a particularly severe seizing fit. Despite his best efforts, the maester was unable to save your cousin._
> 
> _He will be interred tomorrow in the crypts of the Eyrie beside his late father, Jon Arryn._
> 
> _There is much to be done here, but I will write you soon to plan my visit to Winterfell, per our previous discussion._
> 
> _My condolences to you, Lady Arya, and Lord Jon.  
>   
> _
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Your humble servant  
> _ _Petyr Baelish  
> _ _Lord Protector of the Vale_

“No,” she whispered.

“Hmm?” Sandor mumbled into her hair.

The scroll dropped from her hand and she ran to the side table, promptly vomiting into a chamber pot.

“What’s wrong?”

Sansa could only shake her head.

_My cousin is dead because of me… because of my scheming. Why did I think I could best Petyr at his own game?!_

Sandor read the scroll quietly, “Sansa… I’m sorry, but you knew the boy was sickly.”

“Gods what have I done?” she mumbled.

“What do you mean? You’ve done nothing wrong… and what’s this about Littlefinger planning a visit? When did you discuss such a thing with him?”

“Oh Gods!” she slammed her hand down hard on the table, welcoming the pain.

“Sansa!” Sandor tried to pull her into his arms, but she pushed him away. _I don’t deserve his comfort._

“Sandor, I have to tell you something, but you’re going to hate me after I do…”

\--------------------------------------------------

**Arya**

“What the fuck is up your hairy arse today?”

“Mind your business, girl,” Sandor snapped at her.

“It _is_ my business. You’re stomping around like a giant making everyone nervous.”

“I’m not bothering anyone who stays the fuck out of my way.”

“You’ve been sore since this morning, and it is now four o’clock in the afternoon. What’s the matter, did my sister wake up and realize how ugly you are?”

“Shut. The fuck. Up!”

“Oh, so it _does_ have something to with Sansa then…”

“Does ‘shut up’ mean something different in the North?”

“You know, you can scare everyone else around here, but not me.”

“Well I’ll have to fix that, then,” he snarled at her.

“Honestly, what could you two possibly have to fight over? She spends all day ruling the Kingdom, you spend all day hunting or training, then you both spend the night fucking. Don’t see why _you’d_ have anything to complain about,” Arya stuck her tongue out to show her disgust.

He laughed sarcastically, “Aye, I know how it is. She’s the perfect fucking lady and I’m the mean tempered old dog. Nothing can ever be her fault, can it?”

“Alright, then what did she do?”

“Fuck off.”

Brienne marched over, “Perhaps you’d like to find a more private place to curse at one another.”

“No need. My work’s done for the day,” Sandor walked toward the stables, with one very tall woman and one very short woman at his heels

As he saddled stranger Arya asked, “Where are you going?”

“Wherever you’re not.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

He blinked at her, “I’m going to Winter Town to get drunk. I’d prefer to do so alone, and I’d definitely prefer not to have to guard the _princess of Winterfell_ while I’m there.”

She hated when he called her that, and he knew it. She also hated when people treated her like a child, or a delicate lady in need of protection, “I don’t need guarding.”

Brienne pulled Arya aside, “I’ll go with him. You stay here.”

Arya was about to argue but thought better of it, “Fine. I've got better things to do than watch the Hound get so drunk he pisses himself.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

The small man stretched as he looked out the window of Sansa’s solar. The sun was low in the clear winter sky and cast a pinkish-orange glaze on the snows around Winterfell. It was quite a lovely visage, different yet similar to the way the sun reflects gold on the rippling ocean waters of Casterly Rock

He carefully considered his next words. His queen didn’t react well to people inquiring as to her personal state but based on her behavior all day he knew something was troubling her deeply. He poured two cups of wine, but she waved hers off, “My stomach’s been sour all day.”

He raised both cups, “Good, more for me!” The smile he received for his efforts was forced.

“My lady, we have toiled for hours on the affairs of the Castle and the Kingdom. Can we call it a day?”

Sansa nodded, “Of course, I don’t want to work anyone into the ground.”

“Thank you, though I wouldn’t have very far to go.”

She chewed her lip.

“Oh no, have my dwarf jokes finally gotten tired?”

“They’ve been tired for a long time. I just humor you.”

“Ahh, but today you’re not in the mood…”

She shook her head, “I’m sorry, I know I haven’t been pleasant company today.”

“Anything you’d care to discuss?”

“I don’t think I could take another person hating me.”

Tyrion almost spat his wine out, “There is someone who hates you? That is, other than my sweet sister.”

“Only Sandor… and myself.”

“Mmm. I don’t believe the former for a second, and as for the latter… well, I can sympathize with self-hatred, though I’d remind you that you have a history of being your harshest critic.”

“Well if I ever deserved it, it’s now.”

Tyrion looked at his young queen. If there was a woman who almost literally carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, it was she. Probing wouldn’t be productive, she needed empathy.

He swirled the wine in his cup, “You remember the Battle of the Blackwater, Sansa? What am I saying? Of course you do...”

“I had known since Joffrey was a month old that he was not Robert’s heir. Same for Myrcella and Tommen. Robert may have been too drunk, blind, or dumb to notice, but I wasn’t… not to mention Jaime’s not particularly good at keeping secrets from me.”

“He’s not good at keeping secrets from _anyone_ ,” Sansa muttered.

“Fair enough; let’s say he’s particularly _guileless_ in my presence… Anyway, when Stannis’ armies came to take King’s Landing, I knew that he was the true heir to the throne. Not only that, but I knew Joffrey was completely unfit to rule, even if he _had_ been the legitimate heir. The men fighting for Stannis were fighting on the right side. _I_ was fighting on the wrong side. Of course, no one could fault a man for defending his family, right or wrong, but I didn’t just defend them, did I? I didn’t fight _honorably_ … I didn’t let our soldiers and swords determine the outcome.”

Sansa was staring at him now, completely engrossed in his tale. He cleared his throat, and continued, “Do you know what it’s like to listen to the screams of men being burnt alive and to know not just that you’re the cause, but that they didn’t deserve to die that way? That they met that fate not by following a Mad Woman who treated her enemies with the same cruelty, but for following a just and honorable man who had every right to the throne?”

Sansa lowered her eyes.

“So you see, Sansa, there is nothing you can say that would make me hate you, certainly not more than I’ve hated myself.”

She stared at Tyrion and for a moment he thought she was judging him – a possibility he hadn’t even considered – until her own confession came pouring out of her mouth with lightning speed, “I seduced Petyr Baelish to lure him to Winterfell under the pretext of a betrothal so that I can gain access to the Knights of the Vale and exact my revenge on Petyr.”

As her words sunk in, Tyrion couldn’t help but start to laugh.

“Why is that funny?” she asked indignantly.

He waved his hands in supplication, “It’s not, truly, it’s just that if you gave me a hundred years to guess what you were going to say, I would _never_ have said that!”

Sansa shook her head, “It’s not just the deception, or the fact that I debased myself, it’s that my actions caused my cousin Robert’s death.”

Tyrion stopped laughing, “I don’t understand…”

“I _thought_ in Petyr’s rush to wed me he’d stop poisoning Robert so the boy would be well enough to travel here. I didn’t even consider that he’d simply eliminate Robert for good, feeling confident that my promise of a betrothal gave him a more _permanent_ hold on the Vale.”

“Oh my… so Petyr…”

“Yes.”

“And forgive my ignorance, but did you not have access to the Knights of the Vale at Casterly Rock? Or when you stayed at the Inn at the Crossroads?”

“Before the battle wasn’t the right time. And at the Inn, I did, but only with Petyr present, and frankly they left so soon after we had arrived that I didn’t have time to prepare, which is _not_ the way you want to challenge Petyr Baelish at his own game; he’s as slippery as they come.”

Tyrion’s quick mind began to understand, “And technically, while Robert Arryn lives and Petyr is his named Lord Protector, he would overrule you.”

“Correct. I was hoping that during an extended trip to Winterfell I’d have time to speak to Robert alone and win him to my side, along with the Knights who are loyal to him because he’s an Arryn. But at the inn I was unwilling to risk that Petyr would order his Knights to attack us.”

“But couldn’t you have simply…” Tyrion slid his thumb along his neck.

“Petyr is an ally of House Lannister and loyal to the Crown. I’m not giving Cersei any more reason to attack, not to mention your father.”

Tyrion took a moment to ponder everything he’d just learned, then recapped his queen’s personal dilemma, “So you’re mad at yourself for indirectly leading to your cousin’s death, and Clegane is mad at you for seducing Baelish?”

Sansa nodded.

“Sansa, I know nothing I say will give you instant peace, but perhaps I can plant some seeds of it with my words… _you_ didn’t kill your cousin; by the sound of it, Petyr did. And as for Clegane – you were not unfaithful to him. You didn’t sleep with Petyr.”

Sansa shook her head, “He doesn’t question my loyalty. He just… Oh Gods, I’m such a fool! If only I’d have told him of my plan. It should be my habit by now but it’s not. All my time in King’s Landing, then in the Vale, then in Winterfell with the Boltons I had to be guarded at _all times_. Enemies were all around me, sometimes disguised as friend. I could tell no one my true thoughts, even the few people I trusted – there was always the threat of spying eyes and ears.”

Tyrion knew Sansa’s time in the capital and with the Boltons was unpleasant, to put it mildly. But she’d never spoken – at least to Tyrion – of her time in the Vale. Tyrion assumed it was a comfortable captivity, if it even _was_ a captivity. But he decided now was not the time to inquire.

“Clegane loves you as fiercely as I’ve ever seen a man love a woman. If you think this one incident is going to change that…”

“I know he loves me, I just… I’m afraid I’ve lost his respect. He said things I’ve _never_ heard him say…”

“Why don’t you tell me about the argument? Perhaps I can help…”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

**Brienne**

After Clegane’s fourth ale he finally started talking, though it was clear he was still withholding details, “Fucking Littlefinger… should have killed the cocksucker a hundred different times. Instead I listened to her, like the obedient fucking dog I am.”

Roger brought over two more ales and gave Brienne a look that warned her not to let Clegane get out of hand. She nodded at the old barkeep.

Clegane looked at her side of the table, “What the fuck? You come to an ale house and have only one ale? Drink up... I’m not telling you this while you’re sober.”

Brienne took a sip of her second ale. Clegane stared at her until she rolled her eyes and took a deep swig, downing almost half the ale at once.

Satisfied she was on her way to inebriation, he blurted out his knowledge of what Sansa had done to manipulate Petyr Baelish. In typical Clegane fashion he omitted any embellishments that weren’t curse words and withheld many details, likely out of respect for Sansa, but Brienne got the gist.

“Oh,” Brienne said when he was done. She felt herself blushing and looked out a window.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Nothing, just, that’s quite a story.”

He eyed her warily, “Out with it, wench.”

“What? Nothing… I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

Clegane leaned across the table and was only inches from her face, breath stinking of ale, “Liar,” he breathed.

“What am I lying about?”

His fists clenched on the table, “You knew, didn’t you?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“If one more lie comes out of your mouth, it’s going to be Saltpans all over again.”

She scoffed, “You must not remember how that ended for you.”

“No cliffs for you to toss me off of this time, wench. Now SPEAK.”

“Alright, fine. I didn’t know everything you told me; I only knew that while we were at the inn Sansa went into Petyr’s room. She told me she needed to speak to him privately and that she wouldn’t get another opportunity.”

“And you _let_ her?!”

“I didn’t _want_ to, but I can’t exactly refuse a command, can I?”

“Yes, you can; I would have!”

Brienne felt the need to defend herself, though was unsure whether it was Clegane or her own judgment she feared, “Look, she lived with the man in the Vale for what, a year? He had ample opportunity to harm her there. I didn’t like the idea of her going into his room but what was he going to do in five minutes that he couldn’t do in a year? I stood in the hallway to be sure.”

Clegane stared at her with an odd expression on his face.

“What?” she asked.

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Nothing.”

“ _Now_ who’s lying?”

“Not lying, just not my story to tell.”

Now it was Brienne’s turn to study him, “Sansa and Petyr?”

He stared back at her for a few seconds before rising abruptly, “I need another ale.”

While he was gone Brienne pondered his words. Against her will and much to her disgust she wondered what Petyr had done to Sansa, but now was not the time to ask and, out of respect to her lady, she’d not press Clegane to divulge those secrets.

By the time he plopped down across from her again and slid another ale to her she was focused on continuing the discussion in a productive way, “So what exactly are you mad about?”

“Is that a fucking jape?”

She rolled her eyes, “I mean what _specifically_ are you _most_ mad about?”

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer but then he let out a sigh, “That she put herself alone in a room – in a _bed_ with Littlefucker…”

“And?” Brienne knew there was more.

“That she didn’t tell me about her plan.”

“And?”

He sighed again, “The whole thing…” he shook his head. “I thought she was different. She’s clever, she can be merciless when she needs to be, but I never thought she was like this.”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Deceitful.”

“Ahh, I see.”

Brienne, too, was surprised by Sansa’s strategy. In her time serving the young woman she seemed honest to a fault. She hid her own secrets, of course, as she had every right to, but she’d never been purposely deceitful that Brienne could recall. In Brienne’s mind, this only proved that Sansa had good reason for the ruse.

She sipped her ale before continuing, “Do you agree Littlefinger needs to be dealt with?”

“Aye. I have no qualms with her about that,” Sandor waved a hand dismissively.

“Tell me what you know about the man.”

“Where to begin? He’s a creeper, a whoremaster… he’s a slippery fucker, too. He managed to climb his way up to Lord Protector of the Vale using nothing but his brain… started as low as I did. He’s cunning, I’ll give him that. He’s an unrivaled liar and manipulator. Not above murder, rape, and any other heinous deed so long as it helps advance his position, though he usually finds a way to keep his hands clean.”

Brienne nodded, “So _he_ is deceitful.”

“As. They. Come.” Sandor said, smacking the table to emphasize his point.

“Did it occur to you that for Sansa to go up against a man like him, a master manipulator, liar, and conniver, that she must use every weapon at her disposal? Taking on a man as deceitful as Littlefinger without using deceit of her own would be like you or me entering a duel with one hand tied behind our back.”

Sandor didn’t argue, so Brienne continued, “As for her putting herself in Littlefinger’s room… do you really think she can’t handle him? None of his many skills you listed indicate fighting prowess. And I was in the hallway; she’d only have had to yell, and I’d have been at her side.”

“Aye, I suppose… doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No, and she’s not asking you to… but at least you can choose not to _hate_ her for it… So now that we’ve eliminated those causes for anger, let’s address the third: the fact they she didn’t tell you about her plan. Your immediate reaction was to judge her, was it not?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have been as angry if she’d told me from the beginning...”

“I know, that’s not what I’m getting at… You know this woman, Clegane – better than most. And if you know her as well as I do than you know she puts impossibly high standards on herself. I swear the woman spends more time doubting or judging herself than I spend in the training yard.”

“But _I_ don’t judge her. Or doubt her… not anymore.”

“Perhaps not, but you did this time. Did it occur to you that she didn’t tell you because she was ashamed? Because _she_ is uncomfortable with deceit? Because _she_ is ashamed of using her _feminine appeal_ to her advantage?”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “It’s called a cunt.”

Brienne felt her cheeks flush, “I’m familiar with the term, it just happens to be rather _crude_ for my taste.”

“Hells, you really are a prude. For once in my life I pity the fucking lion.”

“What does that mean?”

This time Sandor was the one to lie, “Nothing.”

“What difference would it make to Ser Jaime whether I curse or not?”

“Fuck it, what’s the one-handed knight going to do to me? I don’t pity him that you don’t curse, I pity him that you seem to be completely unaware how to use the fucking hole between your legs.”

“Clegane!” she scolded.

“Hah! Please tell me you do at least _know_ there’s a hole between your legs…”

“This is the most improper discussion I’ve ever had,” she stood up angrily, but he pulled her back down.

“Relax, I won’t talk about your hole anymore... So what about the lion?”

“What about him?”

“Oh come on, even I know he’s handsome, charming, witty,” Sandor spat the words out as if they were insults. “Every woman wants to fuck him, and probably more than a few of the men.”

“Is _Lady Sansa_ included in ‘every woman’?” Brienne asked mischievously.

“Don’t try to distract me. Sansa is the exception to just about every rule I’ve ever known… now, are you going to answer my question?”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

He huffed loudly, “Do you like _Ser Jaime?”_

“Ser Jaime is a good friend; I am fond of him.”

“Gods, woman, I thought someone who swings a sword like you do would be above playing coy…”

Brienne sighed, “If you’re asking if my feelings for Ser Jaime go beyond the confines of a good friendship and working relationship… well I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or won’t say?”

“The former. I’ll admit he is rather attractive, as you pointed out, one would have to be blind to not notice as much.”

“And?”

“And nothing. It doesn’t matter. Ser Jaime has a type, and I’m not it.”

He shook his head, “You two are fucking hopeless.”

Brienne leaned in, “Did he say something to you?”

“I have two eyes and a brain, wench. I see the way he looks at you, and I know what it means.”

Brienne’s cheeks burned for the umpteenth time this evening, “What does it mean?”

“Fuck, do I need to spell it out?”

“You’re saying Ser Jaime likes me in _that_ way?”

Sandor clapped his hands together sarcastically.

She shook her head, “I think you’re mistaken.”

“You think whatever you want. I’m getting another ale, and then I’m going home to bed.”

“To _your_ bed?”

Sandor winced, “About that… I may need you to stand in the hall and listen for my scream.”

Brienne chuckled, “Why? It sounds like you were the one mad at her, not the other way around.”

“Right... until I said something really fucking stupid.”

She raised her brow, “Funny how you left out this detail from your story. What did you say?”

As he prepared to confess, Brienne saw a look she’d never seen in the man’s eyes before – shame.

“I _may_ have compared her to Cersei Lannister.”

“What?!”

“I know!”

“Is that really what you think?”

“No… I mean yes, at the moment… but not really. I was fucking mad, alright? I have a big mouth.”

Brienne knew scolding him further would be pointless, the man was already beating himself up, “Right, best you sleep in your own bed, then, unless you want to wake up short a few bits.”


	98. Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's worries and shame take their toll. 
> 
> Sandor confesses his feelings.

**Sansa**

Sandor had been avoiding her for three days and it was making Sansa sick with dread. Her head ached from all the tension. _Have I ruined things beyond repair?_

The day after their fight she assumed he just needed more time to cool off. He wasn’t treating her coldly during their interactions – in fact he was almost pleasant at times, but each night she fell asleep alone and each morning woke the same way.

_Is it over? And is he so unaffected by it?_

Each day that passed she wanted to speak to him, but she had no words that would excuse her behavior. It was not pride that clenched her mouth shut every time he was around her, it was _fear_. For at the moment nothing was definite. He was hers, she was his, and they were just having a lover’s quarrel. But if she confronted him and found out she had lost his respect and affection… well, then there was nothing for her anymore. She tried to talk to Arya about it, but Arya was so independent she couldn’t relate to Sansa’s distress. She shrugged and said, “He’s a fucking arse, what do you expect?”

Sansa tried to pour herself into her work, but it was becoming more difficult by the minute. Finally Tyrion voiced his concern, “Sansa, pardon my saying so, but you look unwell.”

She looked at her friend and felt a surge of emotion – the kind she’d normally be able to keep in check. She burst into tears and turned away from him in embarrassment.

He rushed to her side and wrapped his short arms around her shoulders, “My dear, hush now. Is it Clegane still?”

“It’s everything! He hates me Tyrion, I’ve ruined everything. I can’t do this without him! I’m sick with worry about Sandor, about Petyr, and I feel so terrible about poor Robert!”

“Shh… what’s done is done with Petyr and Robert. As for Sandor, the man is stubborn, but he will come around.”

“No, it’s not like that. He doesn’t even look angry, just… _indifferent_.”

Sansa rubbed her forehead which felt like a dozen small ropes pulled tight under her skin. The pain was so severe it threatened to make her sick.

“Sansa,” Tyrion pulled back to study her, then pressed the back of his hand to her forehead, “my lady you feel feverish, and you’re quite pale.”

“I’m alright, I’m just stressed about everything and it’s given me a dreadful headache. Even my neck and back hurt.” She tried to rise but immediately her periphery became dark and she had to sit again. Her ears were ringing, and she realized her dress was damp with sweat. Tyrion was speaking to her but all she could hear was the dull roar of ocean waves inside her ears.

She lowered herself to the floor, powerfully drawn to the coolness of the laquered wood. She just wanted to sleep there; she would feel better after a good long nap.

\--------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor leaned against the wall opposite Sansa’s solar, cursing himself for the hundredth time in three days. _You fucking cunt! Why’d you have to get so mad at her? And why haven’t you gone to see her yet, to make things right?!_

He knew the answer to that though: it was fear. Sandor had lost his temper after learning of Sansa’s plans for Littlefinger. He cursed at her, he called her names, he told her she was no better than Cersei Lannister.

Sandor stared at the knob on her door. He wanted to go to her but was frozen in place. What if she turned him away? He told himself he needed to know, one way or another. He couldn’t live with this torture of not knowing another minute.

Sandor had entered hostile negotiations with less fear than he felt as placed his hand on the knob. As if his very touched willed it, the door swung inwards, and Sandor almost fell onto the imp. Over his head he could see Sansa was laying with her left cheek on the hard floor. He practically flung Tyrion out of the way and ran to kneel at her side. She was awake but deathly pale.

“Clegane, go get a maester!” Tyrion shouted.

Sandor didn’t want to leave her side but knew his long legs would get to the maester’s turret faster than anyone else’s. Sure enough, he was back not five minutes later with Maester Damon plus Arya who had seen him running across the courtyard and knew something was amiss.

…

Sansa was asleep in bed. The maester said she was sick with some type of fever. Sansa was lucid enough when they first arrived to describe her symptoms, with Tyrion’s help – a severe headache and body aches, weakness, nausea, and vacillating between hot sweats and cold shivers. He gave her some herbs for the fever and a bit of strongwine and soon she was in a deep sleep.

The maester left with a promise to return every two hours to check on her.

Sandor and the little wolf sat vigil at her bedside, both neglecting their other duties for the day. In the silence that stretched on for the better part of an hour Sandor worried that their fight – and the subsequent stress it caused her – had contributed to the little bird’s illness.

As if hearing his thoughts the little wolf spoke, “She’d die for you, she’d bleed for you, she’d endure so much for you… and you won’t even forgive her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She told me yesterday about your fight – over Littlefinger; about all of it. I know why you were mad but Gods, how much has she forgiven that you can’t now do the same?”

“I _have_ forgiven her… or rather realized I over-reacted in the first place… I’ve been waiting for _her_ forgiveness!”

“Gods, you really are an idiot. You show your forgiveness by ignoring her? Staying away from her for three nights?”

“I thought she needed space! Fuck, how was I supposed to know?”

“By talking to her, you fucking oaf!”

Women were maddening. Every time Sandor thought he’d learned their ways he realized he knew nothing at all. Every time he thought he was making the right choice in regards the little bird he came to later regret it. He knew she sometimes got in spells and needed to work through them on her own, and he thought such had been the case with this disagreement of theirs – but here her little sister sat, arms crossed defiantly, telling him Sansa had been waiting for him to speak to her, assuming he was still angry.

He rubbed his eyes. Of one thing he was certain: Sansa Stark’s brain was a labyrinth. Every time he thought he’d figured out what she was thinking he realized she was five levels deeper. As frustrating as it was for him, he wondered how she could possibly live that way without going mad.

…

Over the next two days Sansa fell in and out of sleep, and it was often difficult to tell which state she was in. In slumber she mumbled and whimpered, spoke gibberish, twitched and jerked. During her brief waking moments she was disoriented, with no grasp of time and space. She would wake and cry out for Theon at times, other times for Sandor, other times for her mother. She’d jerk awake gulping for air as if she’d been holding her breath while asleep.

The fever was ravaging her, and Sandor could see worry on the maester’s face even though he spoke optimistically. He could not pinpoint the cause of her illness – saying no one else in the castle was suffering similar symptoms, certainly not this severe. He assumed her body was simply in a weakened state due to all it had been through in the past few months, but Sandor knew the truth. She was worn down with guilt, regret, fear, and sorrow. He still cursed himself for responding as he did when she spoke of her plans for Littlefinger. Perhaps if he’d not been angry, perhaps if he’d been supportive – assured her that Robert’s death was not her fault, and that she was not wrong for scheming to gain access to the Knights of the Vale… maybe she wouldn’t have been so hard on herself.

Sandor only left her chambers to tend to his bodily needs. He ate and slept in a chair at her bedside. He had so much to tell her when she woke, things long overdue. Jon and Arya sometimes came and sat with him. Other times Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion, or Thoros would wander in, offer to relieve him, but he did not leave her side. His only constant companion was Ghost, who seemed to share Sandor’s unwavering desire to be there when his mistress finally woke.

…

On the third morning after her collapse her fever finally broke, though she didn’t wake until late that night. This time she was aware of her surroundings and her companion. At first, she looked happy to see Sandor, but after several moments she looked away from him in shame, which only made Sandor recall his own sense of guilt.

With a deep sigh he stripped away all but his smallclothes and lifted the covers to get in bed beside her. Hesitantly he stroked her arm.

“Don’t,” she whispered.

He retracted his hand, “Little bird, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t. I don’t want your forgiveness just because you feel sorry for me now. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

“Little bird, you’ve had my forgiveness for days, I was just too much of a coward to talk to you. I thought you were mad at me because of the things I said to you. You must know I didn’t mean them; I don’t think that of you.”

“ _I_ think them, so why wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t have a good answer, and she didn’t seem to truly be expecting one, so instead he said the words that had been living on the tip of his tongue for days, the words he wasn’t sure she needed to hear, but that he needed to say.

“I love you, little bird.”

Her mouth dropped open; for one of the few times in his life he had her speechless and he planned on taking full advantage of the opportunity.

“I love you more than anything. I love you so much it fucking hurts. I love every hair on your beautiful head; I love your fingernails, your belly button, your arms and legs, your cold feet, the freckle on the second toe of your right foot, your nipples, your lips, your eyes and ears and tongue; the red curls between your legs; your eyelashes, your skin, your smile…”

He took a breath and continued, “Your laughter, your heart, your mind, your voice, your songs… the way you’ve an endless supply of love for everyone around you. The way you’re good with a dagger _and_ a knitting needle. The way you chew your lip when you’re deep in thought… The way you moan my name and thank the Seven when you peak. The way you try not to smile when you’re amused by one of Tyrion’s crude jokes. The way you’ve taken me into your pack and accepted me for all that I am and am not…”

“I could spend the rest of my life naming all the things I love about you and I’d die an old man with no teeth and gray hair and I’d still be listing things off because every day I discover something new to love about you…”

“Oh Sandor!” she wrapped her arms around his neck and peppered him with kisses so enthusiastically it was like being tackled by the damned wolf that was presently laying on the end of her bed taking in the strange spectacle.

“Enough, woman! You should be resting…”

She leaned back, leaving his neck cool and lonely.

“I don’t ever want to be mad at you again, Sandor. And I never want you to be mad at me. Thinking you hate me is the worst feeling in the world.”

“I know, but I’m a fucking idiot who never knows the right thing to say. I’m liable to make you mad again, probably sooner rather than later. And I’m fucking short-tempered, so I’ll probably be mad at you, too, though for no good reason I’m sure.”

She bit her lip, thinking, and he had to kiss it. She giggled, “Alright, then how about we promise not to _stay_ mad? How about we’re allowed to be mad for one day only? After that we need to either get over it or talk to the other about it.”

“Deal.”

She buried her face in his chest, “Thank you, Sandor.”

He felt like he could breathe for the first time in days.


	99. Bed Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More good times for Sansa and her pack...

**Sandor**

Sandor quickly realized there were perks to Sansa being on bed rest as Maester Damon ordered for at least five days so her body could fully recover from the fever. Sansa took the phrase “bed rest” quite literally – if she was in bed, she was in compliance with the maester’s orders. She was more than happy to lay back and let Sandor worship her body. He never tired of using his tongue to bring her to peak, often two or three times, before he took her gently. The way she gripped his hair as he worked her center drove him mad, and one night he couldn’t resist the need to take himself in hand as he lapped at her savagely. With a bit of effort he timed his peak with her own. While not as physically pleasurable as spilling deep inside her, reaching his peak with his tongue buried inside her, while her thighs shuddered on either side of his head, was an intoxicating experience that made him feel pride that bordered on arrogance.

The downside to her bedrest was that her bedchamber, which was effectively _his_ bedchamber, now doubled as her workspace, and her bed as her desk. He tolerated finding the little wolf or even the imp sitting on the bed, but when he returned from a brief hunting trip late one afternoon and found the Golden Lion sitting beside her, Sandor knew some boundaries needed to be established. Jaime was fully clothed and even had light armor on, and Sansa was clothed and buried under several furs, but Sandor’s jaw still dropped upon entering the room.

Sansa and Jaime only stared at him smirking, amused by his reaction and clearly not the least bit shamed by the impropriety of their situation.

Sandor exhaled loudly, “Oh good, I was just thinking I hadn’t killed enough things today.”

Jaime let out a genuine laugh while Sansa rolled her eyes.

“I must say, though, I thought I’d need to be gone longer than a day before you replaced me.”

Sansa shrugged innocently, “What can I say? A girl gets lonely.”

“Yes, and I needed to move fast to have any chance of being husband number four… it _is_ my lucky number after all,” with that Jaime rose and bid his lady good evening, keeping a wide berth of Sandor as he made his exit.

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Dare I inquire as to the nature of your pillow talk with _Ser_ Jaime?”

She snorted, “You’ll wish it really was pillow talk once you hear the truth.”

“That bad, eh?” Sandor knew Jaime had been tasked with getting updated reports from all the vassal houses as to the state of their armies – the number of experienced soldiers, soldiers in training, and even able-bodied men and women who could be trained should the need arise. The snows were deep, blessedly, as Sansa suspected winter was the only thing stopping Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy from attacking the North. But every winter came to an end. Tyrion had begun to jape that Sansa was the first Stark to ever warn people that “Spring was coming” – so convinced was she that Spring would mean war for her people.

Sansa nodded, “We have about 20,000 soldiers and another 40,000 men and women fit for training.”

Sandor knew those numbers were frighteningly low; Tyrion had reports that Cersei and Euron had _at least_ 150,000 soldiers at their disposal, but he didn’t want to say anything that would cause her stress. He plopped on the bed, “Well it could be worse… the north’s strength has never been its numbers. Our lands are harsh and unforgiving. We’re safe from naval attacks as long as we are well provisioned, and your brother Jon is certainly helping with that through his hunting and fishing operations… plus you need to remember, Cersei has a bunch of sellswords; every Northman is worth ten of them. They’ll tuck tail and run at the first sign of trouble. Not to mention we have a horse for nearly every man. A mounted soldier can take out ten infantry men before he’s brought down.”

“By your math it sounds like we have at least triple her force!”

“Alright, perhaps I’m being a bit optimistic…”

“You?!” Optimistic?” She pressed the back of her hand against his forehead, “I’m sending for the maester.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, I know just the cure I need.”

He bit at her jaw playfully, causing her to giggle. After squirming under his ministrations for a minute she pushed him away, “Sandor, you smell like a dead moose.”

“You’ll thank me when you sup on it.”

“I’m serious!”

“Aye? Well you smell like you haven’t gotten out of bed in a fortnight.”

She gasped.

He chuckled, “I suppose you want me to call for a bath?” She nodded. “As you wish, your grace.”

They soaked in the tub for nearly an hour, fingers tracing skin, light kisses on cheeks and chests and shoulders. She washed his hair and he washed and oiled hers, a chore he’d come to find sensual bordering on reverent. His need to be close to her swelled into a tangible thing, and he found his mind drifting back to the days of her fever, and before that the days she was in the Red Keep or missing after the battle. The fear and powerlessness he had felt were all-consuming. In days long past, when he occasionally allowed himself to long for the love of a woman, he never realized just how weak it would make him. The benefit to never knowing the joy of a woman’s love was also never risking the pain of losing it.

In his solitary life he’d never learned to process the range of emotions that now inundated him, and at times it was so overwhelming he wanted to run away from the little bird like she was on fire. But in those fleeting moments his feet never budged, because the only thing more terrifying than a life with the little bird was a life without her.

Now as the bath water began to cool, he could only stare down at her where she lay tucked against his chest and wonder how he’d gotten so lucky – and so cursed. His eyes must have betrayed his confusion for she peered up at him and for a moment looked like she would say something, but instead she just rose and stepped out of the tub, using a sheet to dry off. She offered her hand and he took it, feeling like it was a life raft in a storm.

She led him to the bed like he was a lost puppy. She got under the covers but kept herself propped up with several pillows before patting the bed beside her thigh. He laid down there, resting his head on her lap. She wasted no time in combing her fingers through his damp hair, occasionally ghosting over his ear, neck, or back. She hummed a melody that was unfamiliar to his ears, but quite nice.

It wasn’t often they laid like this; most often she wanted him to take her passionately, sometimes even roughly, and he was always happy to oblige. He would bite and suck and lick her until her skin was red, then after they were both sated, he would hold her in his arms protectively and kiss every mark he’d made. But once in a while he needed _this_ – and perhaps she did, too. She always knew when he needed to be held, needed to be comforted, just as he knew when she needed to be loved tenderly instead of zealously. It was never asked for, but freely given.

He was just dozing off when he felt her pull a fur over his still naked body. It was the last thing he remembered when he woke the next morning, arms still wrapped around her legs, anchoring him to this life that had somehow become dear to him.

\-----------------------------------------------

After breaking his fast with Sansa, Sandor joined Brienne and Arya in the training yard. It had unofficially become their custom since returning to Winterfell. Sandor hated to admit that Arya was quite effective with her Needle, and even better with dagger. During their sparring she’d occasionally share bits and pieces of her experiences in Essos – how she had studied briefly with the Faceless men but gave up her training to seek out Daenerys Targaryen. Though she regretted not returning to Westeros to help her sister, it was clear that Arya looked back on her time in Essos as largely a fun adventure.

“What are you so chirpy about?” she asked Sandor, suspiciously.

“What?”

“You’re _whistling_. Thought you needed a full set of lips to whistle.”

“Hah fucking hah. And I wasn’t whistling.”

Arya looked at Brienne and the two women smirked, “Whatever you say,” Arya mumbled.

“It’s not polite to pry, Lady Arya. Besides do you really want to know why he’s so chipper? You know it has something to do with your sister, and since she’s presently bedridden…”

“Ugh! Shut _up_!”

Sandor and Brienne shared a laugh, but Arya would not be outdone, “And stop smiling, Clegane! I didn’t think it was possible, but you look even uglier with that big grin on your face.”

“So? I don’t have to look at me.”

“But my sister does… are you sure she was sick? Maybe it just became nauseating to look at you.”

“It sounds to me like somebody’s jealous… what’s the matter, don’t like being the first _princess_ in history that men don’t throw themselves at?”

“Ugh, like I would want _that_.”

Brienne was laughing a bit too freely at her companions’ expense and should have realized her error before she became the subject of their japes.

“What’s so funny _Ser Lady Brienne_?” Arya teased, “Not all of us are lucky enough to have the _Kingslayer_ kissing our feet.”

“Arya!” Brienne scolded, which only made Arya and Sandor cackle more loudly.

Brienne spoke through gritted teeth, “Ser Jaime is the Master-at-Arms… save your japes for someone who doesn’t have a reputation to lose!”

Undeterred, Arya held a finger to her lips in mock confusion, “Clegane, I’m just a little girl who never finished all my lessons… Help me understand, if Jaime and Brienne had a baby, who would be the mommy and who would be the daddy?”

Sandor’s bellowing laughter echoed through the courtyard, earning them glares from all around.

Brienne huffed and threw down her practice sword before stomping out of the training yard. Sandor shouted after her, “Aw, come on wench, we can take a joke, why can’t you?”

\----------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

“What’s all this?!” Sansa exclaimed as servants carrying tray after tray of food flooded into her bedchamber.

Tyrion strode in, proud of what he had pulled together for his queen, who that morning complained that she was famished since finally regaining her appetite after her illness.

“A feast fit for a queen!” he bellowed.

Jon, Arya, Sandor, Brienne, Jaime, and Thoros entered next.

“Let me rephrase, _why_ is this?” Sansa looked completely stunned.

“For purely selfish reasons, my lady. I’ve been dying to have another feast, but our ever-considerate Brienne pointed out that it would not be appropriate to do so when our queen would not be able to attend… so I’m bringing the feast to you, along with the people who would all be sitting at your table.”

Sansa craned her neck to see the spread being laid out on her table, “And enough wine for the people at _ten_ tables.”

Jaime chuckled, “My lady, perhaps you haven’t met Tyrion Lannister, Sandor Clegane, and Thoros of Myr.”

Sansa threw off the covers and pulled a dressing gown over her sleeping gown. Clearly still famished she picked up a slice of ham with her bare fingers and shoved half of it into her mouth. Seven mouths gasped in unison. Realizing her breach of etiquette Sansa’s eyes widened and she threw the ham on an empty plate as if it was on fire.

Jaime finally summarized what was on everyone’s mind, “How is it I’ve battled dragons and White Walkers, yet _that_ was the most shocking thing I’ve ever seen?”

Sansa was still speechless; even in the presence of her closest friends she never dropped her manners entirely. She once blushed the deepest shade of red when Tyrion saw her lick jam off her finger.

Thoros eyed the half-eaten slice of ham on the plate in front of him then looked up at her, “You going to finish that?”

Sansa burst out laughing, and everyone else followed suit.

The laughter hardly stopped for the rest of the evening. The group of friends shared stories, mostly for Arya’s benefit. Her reactions were priceless.

> _“You rode a dragon?!”_
> 
> _" My sister threatened a woman with three dragons at her disposal?”_
> 
> _“You’ve all been on top of the Wall?”_
> 
> _“You sang for everyone? Were they deaf afterwards?”_
> 
> _"The Hound took an oath of silence?”_
> 
> _“You were shot with an arrow – twice?!”_
> 
> _"Brienne and Jaime fought a bear?!”_
> 
> _“That crazy wildling fucked a bear?!”_

Arya shared a few tales of her own, and earned Clegane’s respect with one in particular,

> _“You killed Meryn fucking Trant? Gods, I’d give Lannister’s left hand to have seen that!”_

Tyrion was having a great time until he realized that he was the subject of very few of these amazing tales. Virtually any story he could share about his time in Braavos involved whores, gambling, or wine – usually all three. In truth his days after fleeing King’s Landing were comfortable and even pleasant. He wanted to talk about his involvement in the battle against Daenerys Targaryen, but everyone around this table had a role to play. 

Tyrion swallowed his sudden feeling of disappointment and instead focused on the people around him. He felt almost fatherly pride toward Sansa – an odd development since they’d once been married. She was a timid girl in King’s Landing, trying desperately to please Joffrey with sweet lies. Tyrion imagined Sansa of today transported back in time. He had no doubt Joffrey would be defenseless against her; she’d have the boy wrapped around her finger – that is, assuming she didn’t simply kill him.

But by far Tyrion was most proud of his elder brother. Jaime had lived his entire life in Cersei’s shadow, and it got him nothing but children he couldn’t father, a thankless job as a Kingsguard, and enough remorse to fill three lifetimes. Jaime had recently confided in Tyrion that he still felt guilt over pushing Bran Stark – Sansa’s younger brother – out a tower window after the boy had caught Jaime and Cersei in an intimate act. It nearly killed the boy, but instead had crippled him for life, which Jaime saw as leading to his eventual death: _“If he wasn’t a cripple, he’d have been stronger, in better shape to flee when Theon Greyjoy sacked Winterfell; perhaps he’d be alive today, like his sister Arya.”_

Tyrion knew well the temptation of imagining the outcomes of past events that never were, but he also knew it was futile: _“Or the boy, being stronger, would have tried to fight Theon in defense of his home and would have died then and there. At least in fleeing he had a chance…”_

Tyrion could see his brother’s pain clear in his eyes every time he looked at him, but these past few months there was something else there: _hope_. His green eyes seemed to brighten at certain times, particularly when Sansa commended him or thanked him for some job well done. It seemed serving the Stark Queen was little by little erasing all the past harm he’d done to her kin, directly or indirectly. When Arya, no doubt at her sister’s insistence, told Jaime she’d decided not to kill him, Tyrion saw the same brightness in his eyes. Of course, not one to look weak, the little wolf her amended her statement, _“Though I’ll not be entirely disappointed if you give me reason to change my mind again.”_

But by far the most potent remedy for his older brother was, against all odds, the Maid of Tarth. Brienne exposed Jaime’s greatest qualities, those he’d kept hidden for years as they held no appeal for Cersei: his sense of duty, honor, and compassion. It was clear that she made Jaime want to be a better man, not by lecturing or criticizing him, but by simply being the lovely, upstanding woman she was. It wasn’t dissimilar to the effect Sansa had on Clegane.

Tyrion snapped back to the present, realizing his brother was saying his name, “Tyrion, do I even want to know what poor woman is the subject of your thoughts at the moment?”

Tyrion chuckled, “As a matter of fact, it’s three ladies: our dear Sansa, Arya, and Brienne.”

Arya scrunched her nose, “Eww!”

“Hah! Not in that way, my lady. I was just thinking about how lucky us weak-willed sinners are to have such strong ladies to steer us toward salvation.”

Thoros lifted his goblet, “Speak for yourself, I’ve never sinned a day in my life.”

Everyone laughed at the obvious jape.

Sansa smiled, “Tyrion, the only things I’ve ever steered you toward are wights, dragons, and mad queens. I’ll more likely be your _death_ than your salvation.”

He knew she was joking but felt the need to express just how much she had already helped him redeem himself and his brother. He reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to her pale knuckles, “And what an honorable death it will be.”

Thoros nodded, “Well said, Lord Tyrion.”

Jaime raised his goblet, “To an honorable death… the most a man can aspire to in this fucked up world.”

“Here, here” the others called out in unison.


	100. Bravery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourself for fluffiness

**Jaime**

Jaime paced his chambers anxiously. The small but jovial celebration of the previous evening made certain things very clear. For one, death was coming for him – perhaps not today, perhaps not a month from now. Perhaps not even in the upcoming war against his sister; but it was coming. The list of regrets he once dragged around like an anchor was much shorter of late, thanks to the forgiveness of others and himself, and finally fighting for a cause he believed in. But there was one item that he knew would haunt him in the afterlife if he didn’t correct it now. He could not go to his grave without telling Brienne how much she meant to him. If she rejected him, he would accept it as gracefully as he could, but he must let the truth breathe.

He was fairly certain she wouldn’t reject him. There had been a few _moments_ that made him think she returned his affection. Stolen glances while they shared a room at Casterly Rock. Maidenly blushes when he complimented her on something other than her swordsmanship. And then there was a conversation – _the_ conversation – the one they had while Sansa was sick with fever and Clegane never left her bedside. Brienne and Jaime dined together in the large hall that night, as they did most nights. Neither was particularly talkative, both worried about their Queen. It was Jaime who broke the silence with an admission that pained him, _“I’ve never had someone love me like that.”_

He thought he may need to explain, but Brienne knew immediately he was referring to Sansa and Clegane, _“Neither have I. It seems rather… nice.”_

Jaime had nodded, _“I’ve often wondered if, in love, the happiness outweighs the pain.”_

_“I’ve wondered the same, many times. The night Lady Sansa… the night she died, the way he screamed… there could be no greater torture…”_

_“Indeed not. And yet… and yet… the happiness must outweigh the pain, or else mankind would have stopped seeking love long ago, no? We’d mate for procreation, we’d band together for survival, but we’d not feel love. Love isn’t a necessity, so why do we choose it even when it pains us? Why does it call to us as strongly as the need to breathe, drink, and eat?”_

_“I know not. It must serve some purpose. It must be the Gods’ will.”_

He had snorted at that, _“Ah, the Gods, of course. Would those be the same Gods who see children starve? Who see men wage wars that benefit no one and hurt everyone? The Gods who let women be raped and abused simply because they’re weaker than men?”_

_“Yes, the same Gods… perhaps the suffering is our lesson, and perhaps love is our reward.”_

Her words, spoken so matter-of-factly, as if the Gods themselves had whispered all the answers into her ears, stunned Jaime. It was so logical, so obvious. She summed up something so vast with such simple eloquence, just as she swung her sword with such economy of motion that it never ceased to amaze him.

He looked down at his stump then, for once wishing there was a hand there not so it could hold a sword but so it could cup both sides of Brienne’s face while he kissed her, and grasp both of her hips while he loved her. He spoke without meeting her eyes, _“Then I suppose we’re fools who forsake love, the only gift we’ll ever be given from the cruel Gods.”_

_“Indeed, foolish and ungrateful.”_

Now Jaime was certain what he must do, but at a loss for how precisely to carry out his plan. Manners be damned, he knocked on Sansa’s bedchamber door, knowing if she was occupied her man would have no qualms about sending Jaime away. Instead Sansa opened her door, with her mandolin in hand. Clegane turned from his seat near the hearth and rolled his eyes upon seeing who had knocked.

Jaime took in the domestic scene. The man sharpening his sword while his lady strummed her instrument. It was… _perfect._ It was everything he wanted, though in his fantasy both man and lady would be sharpening their swords.

“Ser Jaime, is something wrong?” her worry broke his reverie.

“Not at all. I had rather hoped for some advice, if you’ve the time and interest.”

“Always, Jaime,” she smiled as warmly as the Mother herself as she beckoned him to take the seat across from Clegane while she poured him a cup of wine. He knew with the large man there he was in for a bit of mocking, though he hoped Sansa would keep him in line.

“I’ve decided to let Brienne know how I feel.”

“Took you long enough…” Clegane muttered.

Sansa swatted his arm, “You want to tell Brienne how you feel but aren’t sure how to do so?”

“Yes, I mean, I know what I want to _say_ , I just… what exactly am I asking of her? A courtship? She doesn’t strike me as the type that wants to go for strolls through the gardens, or picnics on a hill…”

“Every woman likes those things.”

“Cersei didn’t.”

“And is Brienne anything like Cersei?”

Jaime felt himself blush, “No… not at all.”

Sansa smiled, “If I were in your position, I’d pick a nice day and ask her to join you on a walk, or better yet a ride. Tell her how you feel—”

“Aye, and wear your armor just in case,” Clegane added, earning himself another swat which he seemed to cherish.

Sansa continued, “She’s a woman, Jaime, she has desires just like other women do, and you’re a handsome man and—"

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Clegane moaned, “What she means is, Brienne needs a good fuck just as much as you do.”

Sansa’s eyes went wide, “That is _not_ what I meant! I just meant that Jaime should… should…”

“Fuck her?”

“Stop saying that! I mean that Jaime shouldn’t assume that what Brienne wants is so different from what he wants. He’s worried about how to court a woman like Brienne, when perhaps there won’t need to be a courtship.”

Clegane rolled his eyes, “Aye, meaning they can skip to the fucking. Am I speaking a different language?”

By now Jaime sat with his face in his brotherless hand, hoping to shield himself from the embarrassment. Sansa begged his attention, “All I mean is be prepared to go at her pace, _whatever_ it may be.”

Jaime rose to leave, “Thank you, that was _almost_ helpful.” As he left, he heard the giggles of a woman being teased and tickled by her lover and tried to imagine Brienne acting similarly carefree. It suddenly felt like a mission – and Jaime Lannister had never backed down from a challenge before.

\----------------------------------------------

**Brienne**

Brienne had seen at least a dozen sides of Jaime Lannister – funny, arrogant, confident, defeated, remorseful, generous, sad, happy… but she’d never seen him look as he did now: _nervous._

He had asked her to accompany him on a ride. It was an unusual request, but she assumed he had news that he wished to share in private. Perhaps something related to his sister or father. But they’d been riding for a half hour and he was silent for all of it, though a few times he opened his mouth as if to speak, only to promptly clamp it shut.

Finally she pulled her horse to a stop, “Jaime, you look like a maiden on her wedding night, what has happened?”

He chuckled nervously, “I rather _feel_ like a maiden on her wedding night.”

Now Brienne was worried. _What could be so troubling to affect this man so?_

“Just tell me what concerns you,” she insisted.

“I want to… I will… but I need you to promise me something first.”

She nodded despite the suspicion she felt.

“Promise me that after I say what I have to say we will still be friends… that I won’t lose your respect.”

She rolled her eyes, “Jaime, I know of all your worst deeds; I’ve seen you at your lowest. Do you think any words you say now could lessen my opinion of you so much?”

“Not lessen your opinion, just… damn it, I’m just going to say what I need to say, and I can’t look at you while I say it. Think me a craven if you must, Gods know I feel as one…”

He took a deep breath, staring at the dancing tree branches above him instead of the motionless woman beside him.

“I used to think the way I felt toward Cersei was love. I parted ways with her willingly, but certain that I’d never feel that way about a woman again… and I was right, because what I felt toward her wasn’t love; it wasn’t respect. I know because I respect Lady Sansa as much as a man can respect a woman, and what I felt for Cersei pales in comparison. I also now feel love toward another woman, and again what I had with Cersei is nothing like what I feel now. I realize now that I was bonded with Cersei, deeply bonded in a way twins always are, I imagine. And I thought I loved her, but what I felt was always _in spite_ of who she was. In spite of her coldness, her cruelty, her unfaithfulness, her deceitfulness, her thirst for power, her manipulation. I was a pet to her, a thing to keep her company, but easily replaced. I was a tool – a sword to do her bidding – also easily replaced…”

“Now I love someone else, and it’s _because_ of who she is, not in spite of it. It’s because she is honest, and strong and honorable and brave, but also kind and forgiving and beautiful. Her eyes see me for what I am and accept me, they’re not looking for some weakness to exploit, some leverage to be gained…”

“And I’ve felt this way for a long time, but I fear what will happen if I admit my feelings. I fear that, if she doesn’t return my feelings we won’t be able to go back to the way things were. And for a long time the fear of burning that bridge behind me kept me from admitting my feelings, but I can no longer carry them around. I can’t go another day without knowing the truth, even if it hurts. It’s like a wound ready to fester, you know the flame will hurt it, but you must do it anyway to save the limb, save the body. My love has become a poison, sapping my strength little by little every day… a slow and painful death…”

_He’s in love with Lady Sansa._

The realization hit Brienne like a wave. A sorrow welled up in her heart and the feelings she’d been denying for years now became as clear as day. She didn’t want Jaime to love Sansa, or any other woman. She wanted him to love _her,_ as ridiculous as it sounded – that the handsome and charming Golden Lion would love her, the ugly warrior maid.

As she’d done a thousand times in her life, she swallowed her disappointment and turned back to her friend, “I’m sorry Jaime, but I don’t think she returns your feelings. You’d be a fine match for her, but for whatever reason she loves Clegane.”

Jaime finally looked at her, and his eyes held no sadness, but much bewilderment. Suddenly a single laugh burst from his belly. Then another. And another, until he threw his head back and laughed, much to Brienne’s confusion.

“What is so funny? Have you gone mad?”

He shook his head, “I’m not talking about Lady Sansa, I’m talking about _you_.”

\------------------------------------------------

**Jaime**

When his admission finally came out Brienne looked shocked and then angry; but in between he swore he saw a brief glimmer of hopefulness in her sapphire eyes.

Now those big blue eyes narrowed, “If this is a jape…”

“It’s not… I wouldn’t…”

“Then why?”

“For all the reasons I just said, and something else, something intangible, undefinable I suppose. It’s been there for years but I didn’t know what to call it. Clegane of all people described it rather well. Your love for someone isn’t the sum of all their fine attributes. That’s why you like a person, why you respect someone. The love is just there, and once it’s there you can take away all those attributes one by one. If you woke up tomorrow and stopped being kind, I’d still love you. If the next day you were a bit less honest, I’d still love you. The love is just _there._ It’s this living, breathing thing that is feeding off of me, perhaps that’s more accurate than to call it a poison.”

“So it’s a parasite. Is that better?”

He laughed, “It’s a parasite only because I’m not feeding it. I’m quite certain when it gets what it wants it won’t have to feast on me.”

“What does it want?”

“You… your love.” Suddenly Sansa’s advice came back to him – he needed to be ready to go at Brienne’s pace, give her time to decide whether she returned his affection. His confidence wavered, “I know I’ve thrown a lot at you and you may not know—”

“I know,” she interrupted him. “I want the same, Jaime.”

“So you…?”

“Yes.”

It took every muscle in his face not to grin like a fool, and every muscle in his body not to jump off his horse and dance like the Wildlings did. Instead he dismounted and stood facing her as she did the same.

“Ser Jaime,” she said expectantly.

“Ser Brienne,” he answered. He knew the next part was on him; Brienne was far too shy. He took the two steps to stand in front of her. Green eyes met blue as they stood of a height. Hers searched, his answered. Hers cried, his smiled. He closed the gap and kissed her. It was neither chaste nor hungry. It was a declaration, an agreement. He pulled back to look in her eyes once more and found everything he ever wanted but never expected.

That night they explored the map of each other’s body. Scars and the stories behind them. Freckles and birthmarks and dimples. Places where the lightest touch brought about a fit of giggles. Yes, he found – Brienne of Tarth was capable of giggling.

They also _discovered…_ she discovered pleasure, he discovered peace. She discovered what it was like to be held by a man – a man who didn’t mind that her limbs could just as easily encircle him. He discovered what it was like to lay, sated and content, to listen to another’s heartbeat and breathing, instead of the sound of clothing hastily being straightened, and of wine sloshing into a cup as a way of letting him know he was being dismissed.

And finally, they both discovered what it felt like to fall asleep in the warmth in another’s arms.


	101. Spies and Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News, news, and more news.

**Sandor**

_When will I learn my lesson? Nothing good ever lasts._

Four days ago Winterfell had received a white raven from the Citadel heralding the coming of Spring. It would still be several months before the snows melted as far north as Winterfell, but Sansa remained convinced that Cersei’s armies would be arriving shortly thereafter. Sandor was still unconvinced that Cersei intended to attack. No doubt the outcome of Sansa’s trial didn’t eliminate the contempt Cersei held for the younger queen, but Cersei never had a shortage of people she loathed, and she managed to not wage war against all of them.

Then again, she’d never had as much power as she did now. A generous loan from the Iron Bank, a fleet of Ironborn warships, and no one opposing her claim to the throne – no one except Sansa Stark who, in Cersei’s mind, was rebelling against her by wearing the title Queen in the North.

But the news arriving this morning via cryptic letter from one of Tyrion’s spies in the capital – a whore who spent many nights with one of the Crown’s military commanders – is what proved that Sansa’s worst fears would soon be a reality.

_“Just tell me what it says, Tyrion.”_

The imp had hesitated to share the dreadful news.

_“Just tell me.”_

It pained Tyrion to say the words, but he did: _“The Crown and Euron Greyjoy have about 200,000 combined soldiers, along with the Ironborn fleet of one hundred ships. This doesn’t include any potential allies – the Vale, the Riverlands, or House Lannister. Cersei’s commanders have been instructed to begin preparing for an extended siege which will commence when the Northern snows are melted – at which time Euron Greyjoy’s men will attack White Harbor, Widow’s Watch, Ramsgate, Deepwood Motte, and Sea Dragon Point.”_

Sansa had nodded calmly and for several seconds Sandor and Tyrion only stared at her until, quick as a whip, she hurled a glass goblet across her room where it shattered against her hearth. Both men flinched but said nothing. _“I should have died in that trial; it would have satisfied Cersei’s revenge. This is all about her personal vendetta against me!”_

Tyrion had taken her hand, _“Sansa, this is not on you. She hates me just as much as she does you, if not more. She resents Jaime for leaving her. If you had died, she would still demand the North bend the knee and then your brother would be hearing the words I’ve just shared with you.”_

Now Sandor was sitting in the training yard while Sansa, Tyrion, and Jaime were toiling away in her solar, already deep in maps and battle plans.

Jon Stark and Ghost approached, sitting beside Sandor without meeting his eyes. “How did she take the news?” Jon asked.

“Same way she takes all bad news. She swallows it down until it festers in her stomach and destroys her from the inside out.”

Jon snorted, “My father was just like that.”

“You fucking Starks, always doing penance for some perceived wrong.”

“Aye; pity the fools who love us.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes before Jon spoke again, seemingly needing to unburden himself, though why he chose to do so with Sandor was a mystery to the large man, “Sometimes I’m glad Bran and Rickon are gone. Sometimes I’m glad Sansa’s… Ben… isn’t here. This life…” the young lord sighed, “it’s just one thing after another. This isn’t a world for the innocent.”

Sandor nodded, “Aye, what kind of sick fucker would want to have a child in this shite hole of a world?”

“The sickest of the sick.”

“Aye.”

“…Or, maybe, someone hopeful enough to believe the world will be a better place someday.”

Sandor snorted, “Now there’s a fool. As long as people like Cersei Lannister, Joffrey Baratheon, and Aerys Targaryen sit the throne the world will never be a good place.”

“I said _better_ , not _good._ ”

“Aye. A different shade of shite brown.”

Another silenced stretched and Sandor noticed at some point Arya had made her way over. She sat alongside Sandor and Jon but like them, stared straight ahead and began speaking as if she’d been part of their conversation from the beginning, “Do you ever wonder how it could have been different? If Sansa had married Joffrey before he died, she’d be queen now.”

Sandor shook his head, “No, she would’ve been queen for ten minutes before Cersei slit her throat.” In truth he’d had the same thought many times this past year, particularly when hearing the crowd chant Sansa’s name at her trial by combat, but he knew Cersei would never have let that happen.

Arya was practically pouting, “It’s not fair. Just because Cersei married fat King Robert, she gets to decide the fate of the realm. Nobody even likes her. She had to _buy_ an army… and even then, she only got it because she was _slightly_ less crazy than Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Save yourself some disappointment girl and stop expecting the world to be fair.”

\-----------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

After hearing the dire news from the South, Sansa immediately set to task but noticed everyone seemed to be expecting her to have a breakdown at every moment. As if this news would be the thing that finally stole the last bit of Sansa Stark’s sanity.

Since her illness, Sandor had been fawning over her like she was made of glass – both physically and emotionally speaking – until she could take it no longer. _“The next time you ask me what I need or how I’m feeling I am going to send you north to help Jon’s people, and I’ll send Arya with you with explicit instructions to fill every hour of every day with idle chatter.”_

Her threat was empty, and he knew it, but her point had been made.

In truth his attentions and concern were sweet, though took up precious minutes she did not have. Every second of every day her mind was occupied with plans and preparations for dealing with the upcoming war against the Crown. If Sansa managed to survive the coming war, she would give herself permission to finally think about her own happiness – assuming Sandor survived as well. If he didn’t, well, Sansa knew she’d follow him to the dark place.

…

The raven from the Eyrie arrived two days after the news from Tyrion’s spies.

> _My dear Sansa,_
> 
> _As you read this note I am en route to Winterfell with a host of lords, ladies, and the most senior Knights of the Vale, who will join us in our upcoming celebration._
> 
> _We travel by ship from Gulltown to White Harbor. If the winds are favorable, we will arrive within a fortnight. I will be counting the seconds until I see your face again._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Your humble servant  
> _ _Petyr Baelish  
> _ _Lord Protector of the Vale_

Sansa didn’t know what to make of the timing of this correspondence. She couldn’t imagine Petyr would follow through with their betrothal if he knew Cersei’s attack was imminent, unless he simply didn’t realize the disparity between Sansa’s forces and Cersei’s. _Is it possible he departed the Eyrie before hearing the news?_ His network of spies was unmatched except perhaps by that of Lord Varys, though the Eyrie was fairly isolated, even with winter winding down.

Sansa pocketed the scroll and decided to continue with her original plan. She would need to invite at least a few of her bannermen for the ruse to be believable – Petyr was too clever to leave anything to chance. It wouldn’t be a wasted trip – they could begin discussing strategy for the upcoming war. To be conservative Sansa was assuming they needed to be prepared for Cersei’s attack to begin in as little as four moons, though it would likely be closer to six knowing how long it took for the deep snows to melt north of Moat Cailin.

Sansa sent invitations to Tormund, Lady Hornwood, Lady Cerwyn, Lady Tallhart, and Lady Mormont. They could all be at Winterfell in less than a fortnight. To the other Lords she sent letters to inform them of everything she knew about Cersei’s plans. She wrote that they should immediately begin training every boy and girl over the age of twelve as well as stockpiling provisions. Sansa made a note to herself that after the upcoming war she would institute a system where at the age of twelve every able-bodied child would be given basic military training; those who were not able-bodied should be instructed in other skills such as battle strategy, supply conservation tactics, or weapons design. Sansa wanted to see the North become a force to be reckoned with not just during winter but all year round. They’d never have the population of the large southern cities, but every Northern man and woman would be worth ten Southerners in terms of their physical or mental proficiencies.

Sansa had to remind herself that there were more pressing matters than her dreams of a future that the North may or may not see. The task at hand today was for Tyrion and her to decide which castles must remain fully manned and which would send their forces to Winterfell.

Moat Cailin must be manned – that was without question. The southern armies traveling by land would be picked apart going through the Moat. Sansa silently thanked her past self for charging Derik Cassel with the restoration of the once-great stronghold.

The Dreadfort was also too valuable to see fall into their enemies’ hands. It was the second largest and most well secured fortress in the North. If Cersei or Euron took it, they could hold it with a couple hundred men for years.

This is where Tyrion’s extensive knowledge of the Northern castles was a great asset. He suggested that the women and children take refuge at Castle Black where Jon’s men would protect them and potentially lead them north to the Lands of Always Winter if Sansa’s armies fell. For this reason he suggested Last Hearth also stay manned, to act as an additional deterrent to any of Cersei’s forces that may be tempted to try to take Castle Black.

The more difficult choices were the castles at harbors or with a coastline. These included Ramsgate, White Harbor, Karhold, Deepwoode Motte, Bear Island, and Flint’s Finger. Tyrion suggested all their forces be pooled together, with half joining Winterfell and the other half defending New Castle at White Harbor. White Harbor was the most critical port in the North, and it contained the largest and most defensible fortress of all the port towns.

Sansa agreed with his logic but argued that Karhold must also remain manned. It was a stronger fortress than New Castle in White Harbor. Tyrion felt this was spreading their limited forces too thin. This was the point they were arguing over when Jaime and Sandor entered the solar. They each pleaded their case to the men. Surprisingly, Sandor agreed with Tyrion – the North’s armies were too limited to be spread among six castles, not including Castle Black.

Thinking she was outnumbered Sansa nodded, until Jaime laid his sword vertically over the map intersecting Winterfell, “In Sansa’s plan, our forces will hold everything east of Winterfell, which includes the Kingsroad and the largest and strongest castles from Castle Black down to Moat Cailin. It would be foolish to leave but one of those fortresses – and mind you the eastern-most one, unmanned. Furthermore, and I do hate to plan for surrender, but if the war ends in a compromise where we need to offer them lands and castles, it would be easy enough to carve off everything west of Winterfell and let them make it an extension of the Westerlands.”

“I’m sure your father would like that,” Sandor grumbled.

“Call me biased if you will; all I’m saying is that it is of utmost importance that we keep hold of the largest ports and largest castles.”

Sandor shook his head, but his words spoke of some agreement, “Sound plan, but none of it will matter if we don’t have enough men to defend it.”

“Let me worry about that,” Sansa said, “You just keep training as many as you can.”

“Hmpf, that’s what we’re doing… only we’re training boys who don’t even have hair under their arms yet.”

“Neither did Arya when she killed her first man,” Sansa responded defiantly.

“Aye, but everything about the little wolf defies logic.”

Tyrion grinned at Sandor, “I’d argue it runs in the family.”


	102. Lies and Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone gets his comeuppance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long and chapter.  
> Reminder: my Sansa has green eyes (that will be relevant in this chapter)

**Sandor**

The past two days were utter torture for Sandor, following Sansa around as she and _Petyr_ made their _plans_. The fucking cunt was far too familiar – holding Sansa’s arm, placing his hand on her lower back, kissing her on the cheek or temple. If anyone ever accused the Hound of lacking self-control, he would refer them to these days.

The evening of the feast to celebrate Sansa and Petyr’s betrothal, the _couple_ took their seats at the high table in the large dining hall, with Sandor and Brienne standing behind them. Everyone drank and ate, and Petyr was frequently seen stroking his betrothed’s cheek or hair and giving her kisses with his wicked lips. Each time he kissed Sansa she responded with a shy smile. Petyr acted like a true gentleman, pouring her wine and offering his hand every time she stood up to speak with one their guests. Sandor frequently directed his eyes toward the little wolf, who plainly shared his disgust. Knowing he wasn’t alone in his suffering made the evening slightly more bearable. What dominated more of his mental energy was worrying about whether Sansa could pull off her plan. He’d learned not to doubt her, but she’d not yet been tested by a man so cunning as Littlefinger.

After the fourth course was served Petyr stood and tapped his goblet with a butter knife. Gradually all eyes turned to him and Sansa. “I promise this interruption will be brief – I hate to take you from the festivities, but I’d be remiss in not taking this moment to toast my lovely bride before you’re all too deep in your cups to remember a word I say.” He paused to allow them to laugh, and they obliged.

“It has long been my desire to wed the most beautiful woman in all the realm, and it seems my wish has been granted – though it would appear I am an over-achiever, as I’ve managed to find a wife who is more than a great beauty. My dear Sansa is the strongest, kindest, most intelligent woman I’ve ever met. Standing next to her I admit to feeling completely inadequate, but I’ve always been a man up for a challenge.”

_Pretty words from a dirty mouth…_

Turning, he took Sansa’s hand and gently raised her to stand facing him. He raised her hand to his lips and planted a deep kiss on her pale knuckles, “My lady, my queen, my love… I am humbled in your presence, but I vow to spend the rest of my days striving to be worthy of you. I look forward to standing by your side as we serve the great Kingdoms of the North and the Vale.”

_You’ll never be worthy of her, you cunt._

He raised his cup and was met by cheers from all. Sansa bowed her head to him slightly as she, too, lifted her cup before taking a sip. Petyr sat but Sansa remained standing, and the crowd soon hushed again to hear their queen’s words.

“I apologize for prolonging the interruption, and I’m afraid mine will be less brief; I could never compete with my lord’s ability to express himself with both eloquence and brevity.”

Petyr offered a humble nod but ate up the compliment.

“First I would like to thank our honored guests for traveling so far,” she turned in the direction of the tables where the Knights of the Vale were seated, “I am honored to be in the presence of the Knights of the Vale, and proud to be able to call such great men my allies since even before our houses were to be joined through marriage. I thank you for the fierce loyalty you’ve shown my kin for years – my aunt through blood, the late Lysa Tully Arryn, and the late great Lord Jon Arryn, who my father, Lord Eddard Stark, looked up to as one does a beloved uncle.”

She paused as several of the Knights showed their respect for the late Arryns and Stark by saying “Here, here,” with raised cups.

“When Petyr and I decided to join the Vale and Winterfell through marriage, I, too, made a silent vow to honor my Lord Husband as he has always honored me. I vowed to see him realize everything he has labored so tirelessly throughout his life to attain,” Sansa turned to face Baelish, “and starting today, my love, I will do everything in my power to see to it that you get all that you deserve.”

Her smile was sugar sweet. Several ladies oohed and aahhed at Sansa’s words, though Sandor noticed Baelish shift in his seat.

Sansa patiently waited for the guests to go silent again before continuing, “Lord Petyr Baelish, you are hereby accused of the crimes of murder, attempted murder, rape, conspiracy to incite war, and regicide… do you deny these crimes?”

A few gasps were heard, but no one uttered a word. Littlefinger went pale but maintained his smile, “My bride, it seems I must add _sense of humor_ to the long list of your virtues.”

Several guests chuckled awkwardly. Sansa smiled as she shook her head, “I wish this were a jape, my lord. Now please answer the question – do you deny these crimes?”

Petyr huffed, still shocked, before finally answering, “Of course I deny these crimes. I deny all these crimes! Sweetling, what is this?”

One of the Knights – Ser Bryan Telford – stood, “Your grace, would you care to elaborate on the charges you are alleging against our Lord?”

“Of course, which allegation would you care for me to substantiate first?”

The Knight, still looking bewildered, arrived at an answer, “Murder.”

Sansa nodded, “Of the ones I’m aware of, Lysa Arryn, Robert Arryn, and Harrold Hardyng. He also conspired with Lysa Arryn to murder Jon Arryn.”

More gasps could be heard. Petyr looked incredulous and rose, but Sandor placed a mailed hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit.

Sansa continued, “I have definitive proof of only two. Petyr murdered my Aunt Lysa by pushing her through the Moon Door—"

Ser Telford interrupted, “We know this – you yourself told us it was in self-defense, to protect you and Lord Baelish himself.”

“I did, regrettably, say that. I supported Petyr’s lie out of fear for my own safety, as I was living as his hostage at the time, albeit with a prettier _title_. The truth is that Lysa Arryn did attack me after seeing Petyr kiss me in the courtyard of the Eyrie – a kiss which I did not invite, for the record. She was jealous, for obvious reasons. Petyr was effective in convincing her to let me go and she was no longer a physical threat to either of us. She was upset by Petyr’s betrayal after, in her words, she ‘did what Petyr asked and poisoned her husband’. Petyr pushed her through the Moon Door after admitting he had never loved Lysa.”

“Lies!” Baelish shouted.

More sounds of shock and appall could be heard, but Sansa continued, “As for my cousin Robert Arryn, I know that Petyr had instructed the Eyrie’s maester to give the boy Sweetsleep nearly every day.” Sansa turned to her own maester, “Maester Damon, will you please inform our guests on the dangers of administering Sweetsleep with such frequency?”

The maester nodded slowly, as shocked as everyone else, “No maester would administer the drug more than three days in a row. It accumulates in one’s system, causing weakness, tremors, irrational thinking, and eventually, death.”

_No, but you kept the little bird filled with milk of the poppy, you old cunt._

“The timing of my cousin’s death proves Petyr kept him alive – though sickly – so he could continue to rule the Vale as Lord Protector. My cousin died but weeks after Petyr and I made a tentative agreement to wed. With me being the standing heir to the Vale since my late husband, Harrold Hardyng, had been Robert’s heir, Petyr no longer needed Robert alive…”

“As for Harry’s murder, I have no proof to share with you, but my suspicion is based on two main factors: first, that Harry was young and healthy, and should not have succumbed so easily to fever. Second, that a fortnight after Harry’s death Petyr had brokered an even greater marriage alliance for me, one for which I’m sure he was rewarded handsomely: the marriage to Ramsay Bolton, heir of the Warden of the North. He must have been in communication Roose Bolton since _before_ Harry took ill.”

Telford cleared his throat, “What of the other allegations – the attempted murder, for instance?”

Sansa reached beneath her cloak and produced a curved dagger Sandor had never seen. She laid it on the table, out of Petyr’s reach, “Lord Tyrion, do you recognize this blade?”

Tyrion, surprised to be pulled into the discussion, walked slowly to the table and inspected the dagger. After a few seconds comprehension painted his face, “I do, as a matter of fact, though I haven’t seen it in many years. I once played a game of Cyvasse with Lord Baelish. He put this dagger forth as a wager, telling me it was Valyrian steel, which it clearly is. Unfortunately I lost the game, so Petyr kept his dagger, and I owed him a rather large sum of gold.”

“Thank you, my lord. I recently came into possession of this dagger. Lord Tywin Lannister gave it to me in private. According to Lord Tywin, he obtained it from Roose Bolton, whose men seized the dagger from my mother during the Red Wedding. It was the dagger that a paid assassin used in attempt to murder my younger brother Bran – only thwarted by a mother’s protectiveness and Bran’s direwolf. As I understand it, the reason my mother believed that you, Lord Tyrion, had possessed the dagger, was because Lord Baelish told her he lost the dagger to you in a game of Cyvasse. This is why my mother’s men took you into custody, which effectively started the war between our families. Tell me, would anyone else have witnessed you losing to Lord Baelish the game in question?”

Tyrion nodded, “Only a pair of whores, who I doubt could be tracked down, and a brother who would be most easy to locate,” he gestured at Jaime, who nodded his agreement.

Sansa continued, “That is part of the proof I offer for the charge of inciting a war… though I have other evidence…”

Littlefinger protested, “You’d believe a pair of Lannisters over your Lord?” he directed at the Knights, but Sandor again laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Keep your trap shut, Littlefinger, or I’ll take your tongue with that pretty little dagger.”

Sansa continued, “The other evidence I have in support of the fourth charge is the reason Lord Baelish had Lysa Arryn poison her husband in the first place. It is a rather complicated story I’m afraid, and to understand it you’ll have to know that Petyr’s greatest aspiration in life is to see himself on the Iron Throne. His original intent was to have my mother by his side, but after her death he amended his plan to place me in her role…”

“Lord Baelish knew there was only one man Robert Baratheon would trust as his Hand: his good friend and my father, Lord Eddard Stark. After Lord Hand Jon Arryn’s death, as expected, King Robert named my father as his Hand. Once in King’s Landing, Petyr _generously_ offered his assistance to my father in a secret mission: to prove that Queen Cersei’s children were not Robert’s heirs but actually bastards.”

Jaime shifted uncomfortably, earning several glances.

“As anyone who knew Cersei could predict, my father’s accusations were considered treachery. Everyone here knows the tragic events that ensued. Suffice to say, my father was eliminated, and Petyr then moved to endear himself with my mother. After her death, it was Petyr who, unbeknownst to me at the time, conspired with Olenna Tyrell to poison King Joffrey – yet another murder I accuse Lord Baelish of – and an act of regicide. Petyr is the person who _rescued_ me from King’s Landing, offering to take me in and protect me under the guise of his bastard daughter, Alayne Stone.”

Several of the Knights nodded.

“Living with Petyr for many months I can personally attest to him receiving ravens and parchments from many houses at odds with one another, including the Boltons, the Freys, the Lannisters, the Martells, the Tyrells, the Tullys, the Karstarks, and more.”

Petyr spoke again, “She’s lying, these are all lies… she is trying to gain your favor without having to uphold our betrothal. It is your responsibility to protect your Lord! I wish to be escorted at once—”

This time it wasn’t Sandor who stopped Petyr’s attempt to stand, it was Sansa herself. Before Littlefinger even realized it was happening she picked up the dagger and drove it hard through his hand and into the wooden table beneath.

Several lords and ladies gasped and jumped. Petyr stared at his hand for several moments before the pain and realization registered, then he screamed out, “What have you done?! You’re mad!”

“I am indeed mad, my lord, but I am not a liar,” Sansa motioned for the guests to sit, and whether out of respect or fear, they did. “I would indeed be honored to earn the loyalty of the great Knights of the Vale, but you have my word that no harm will come of you here. If the night ends with us as allies it will be by your choice and your choice alone. Now, I believe I have provided more than enough information to support my allegations, but I am willing to answer your questions, and to hear anyone who desires to speak in Lord Baelish’s defense.”

The Knights exchanged glances before Telford, who seemed to be their unofficial speaker, addressed the queen, “Your grace, we have come this far, we’d like to hear your proof of the last charge, the charge of rape.”

Sansa’s face reddened but she stood straight and nodded, “Of course, Ser. The victim of this charge is none other than myself.” Many lords and ladies lowered their heads, but Sansa held hers high, “Over the time I was Petyr’s ward, hostage, _daughter_ – whatever you’d like to call it – I was raped on numerous occasions. I stopped counting, eventually.”

Sandor’s stomach churned. He knew as much, but to hear the little bird say it aloud made him sick with rage and remorse.

Hand still stuck to the table, Petyr shouted, “That is a lie! I never hurt her! I never forced myself on her.”

“I admit the _encounters_ were not of violence, but most definitely of coercion. As I already stated, I was entirely reliant on Lord Baelish’s protection. After seeing him murder his own wife, I had no doubt the same fate could befall me should I displease him.”

“Lies! She was a girl… she… she… it was _she_ that tried to seduce _me_ , to endear herself to me, and I rebuked her at the time as I was still mourning my wife’s death!”

Telford inquired, not uncompassionately, “My queen, do you have any proof of this charge?”

Sansa took a deep breath, “I once had proof, but it was stolen from me. Maester Damon, you saw my son, the babe I birthed a few months into my marriage with Ramsay Bolton…”

Many utterances of shock were heard as the maester nodded.

“Tell our guests, maester, what color were my son’s eyes?”

“They were blue… bright blue.”

“Maester Damon, as Winterfell’s maester you are well informed of the Stark lineage… enlighten us once more, please, has there ever been a blue-eyed Stark?”

The Maester shook his head, “None that has ever been documented, and the records are quite complete.”

Sansa nodded, “So for over eight thousand years, never a Stark child born with blue eyes… Ser Telford, what color eyes did Harrold Hardyng have?”

The understanding was plain in Telford’s voice, and written on the faces of all the Knights, “They were green, your grace.”

“Thank you, Ser. And as everyone here can clearly see, Lord Baelish has lovely, bright blue eyes.”

Petyr rose as best he could. The fear had turned his normally cool tone into a manic utterance, “Alright, fine! I admit it, I succumbed to her advances once! In my loneliness I accepted Lady Sansa’s offered comfort, but it was consensual, I swear this upon all the Gods!”

Sansa laughed though the anger radiating off of her was palpable, “Of course, Lord Baelish, what woman wouldn’t _consent_ to laying with a man who moans her mother’s name when he peaks?”

Some of the ladies present looked like they would faint. _Fucking cows, you can’t even stand hearing about it… she had to live through it._

Sansa composed herself and addressed the room, “Does anyone wish to speak on Lord Baelish’s behalf, to refute the crimes as I’ve laid them out.”

Seeing no one was stepping to his defense Littlefinger grew even more desperate, and only managed to seal his own fate, “You’re wrong! I loved you Sansa… I had loved your mother but that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you just as much… even more! I never meant to hurt you, I’m sorry if I did, but please Sansa, please have mercy. I saved you from the Lannisters, you’d have been executed after Joffrey’s death if it weren’t for me!”

“Hah! A death _you_ caused.”

“He was a madman! He was abusive toward you, I did it to protect you, to protect the realm!”

“Then how do you explain selling me to the Boltons, and please don’t insult us all by denying you knew of Ramsay’s predilections before making that deal!”

“But… but… alright, I admit, I knew he was cruel, but I never thought he would be as horrible as he was to you, please! I thought I was helping you retake Winterfell! I was doing it for you, for the North! To put a Stark back in Winterfell! I planned to rid you of him at the earliest opportunity… I would take you as my wife and rule Winterfell with you… I’d have loved you like no other, cherished you! I beg of you, mercy, please!”

Sansa only shook her head, “Your lies have become tedious. You’ve just admitted to murdering Joffrey, to being in love with my mother, to laying with me, to planning to murder Ramsay Bolton... If no one will speak in your defense, then the verdict is clear. Petyr Baelish, you have been found guilty of the crimes of—”

Before she could finish, Petyr wrenched the dagger from his hand and moved to grab Sansa, but before he could complete his task a longsword was plunged into his back, exiting through his chest. Sandor withdrew the blade and wiped it on Petyr’s velvet doublet before sheathing it. As if nothing had happened, he resumed his stance behind his queen.

“Ser Telford, my words were true: you and your men are free to leave. Should you choose to do that, you will not be an enemy of the North. But if you choose to stay and fight with us, House Stark will be your most loyal ally, as we were for generations.”

The Knights seemed to have a silent conversation before rising in unison, “Your grace, the Knights of the Vale stand with House Stark and the Queen in the North. We will not remain idle as Winterfell falls to the mad queen’s army… Furthermore, as Harrold Hardyng’s widow, and a blood relation of our late Lord Robert, we consider you not just our ally, but the Lady of the Vale. We trust you will appoint a Lord Protector who is worthy of the title, unlike the last one.” The man bowed deeply.

…

Sansa invited Ser Bryan Telford and a few of the most senior knights to her private solar while her _betrothal_ feast continued, as if nothing had happened, after Petyr Baelish’s body was removed.

_Apparently, with enough wine and ale people can forget anything._

“Ser Bryan, Ser Reginald, Ser Mathis, Ser Eric, thank you for joining me and foregoing the festivities. I wanted to apologize for the ruse. I do not enjoy deception, but unfortunately find it sometimes necessary when dealing with deceitful people. I needed a way to have your ear, while remaining in the safety of my own lands. I hope my honor has not been called into question, though if it has, I would not blame you.”

Ser Bryan spoke, “On the contrary, we do not doubt your honor, and I can personally say my estimation of you has only increased after having witnessed your bravery, composure, and fortitude firsthand.” He cleared his throat, seemingly uncomfortable about his next words, “And your apology is not necessary. I feel we owe you an apology. As Knights we are sworn to protect the innocent. I am ashamed to learn of the abuse and manipulation you suffered during your time in the Vale.”

“You are true Knights indeed if that is how you feel, when you had no reason to suspect any of the crimes that were taking place. I’m afraid my time in the Capital taught me to trust no one, save the man who stands now as my shield,” she gestured at Sandor, “I was young and frightened then. I am the only person who should look back on my time in the Vale and feel shame – barring Petyr Baelish, of course, but as we know, he feels nothing, anymore…”

Ser Mathis, who’d been quiet the entire evening, raised his wine goblet, “I’ll drink to that, never trusted the slimy whoremonger… uh, pardon my language, your grace.”

Sansa offered a small smile to the man as she, too, raised her cup, “No pardon needed, and please feel free to address me less formally.”

The man blushed at the beautiful queen’s attention. Sandor thought him too old to blush under a young woman’s gaze but knew better than most the effect she had on the opposite sex.

“I’ve asked you here so that we can all get better acquainted, but obviously there is a need to decide on a new Lord Protector of the Vale sooner rather than later. I’m open to hearing your recommendations if there is someone amongst your bannermen you believe would be suitable.”

Ser Bryan spoke, “To be truthful, my lady, there are none that come to mind,” the man shifted, “during Lord Baelish’s time as Lord Protector, the region was rife with collusion and the pursuit of ill-gotten gains. There are good men among the bannermen, do not mistake me, but I don’t know that any of them possess the many attributes that define a truly noble Lord Protector.”

“Had you considered yourself, Ser Bryan?”

The man looked genuinely shocked, “You flatter me, my lady, but I’ve never fancied myself a ruler.”

“Then you prove your character is well suited to the task. I encourage you and your men to take a day to think on it, but if you don’t come up with another candidate, I’d ask you to assume the role on a one-year term with the potential to be extended. Of course, a good Steward can handle the day-to-day tasks, but I want someone I know and trust as Lord Protector. Ser, I believe you are someone I can trust.”

Ser Bryan nodded, “We will indeed think hard on this. Thank you for your faith in me, my lady.”

“Do you have any questions for me, Ser Bryan?”

He cleared his throat, “With the Arryn line extinguished, I’m curious – as you are now Lady of the Vale, will you someday name one of your own sons as heir to the Vale?”

Sansa shifted in her chair. Sandor knew the topic pained her, but the Knight was only asking a logical question.

“I am a woman who likes to be prepared for all possibilities, which I think is only practical during times of war. My first child will, of course, be heir to Winterfell and the North. My second child would be heir to the Vale. However, in the event I should die before producing an heir to either, my nephews or nieces through Jon and Arya would have claims. Should my sister Arya express an interest, my intent would be to someday install her as Lady of the Vale.”

The men nodded their agreement with the _contingency_ plan, which Sandor knew was likely if Sansa never was able to bear children. He was surprised to hear her plans for the little wolf, though it made sense. He also noted that when referring to her future heirs she chose the word “child” instead of “son”.

_Good._

\---------------------------------------------

After the Knights bowed their exits to their new Queen, Sandor finally allowed himself to exhale. The night had been so eventful in both good and bad ways. He’d gotten to run his sword through Littlefinger, that was very good. But he’d had to listen to all the details about the man’s involvement in starting the war, putting the Starks and Lannisters at odds, and worst of all, laying with his little bird. How any man would lay with her and need to think of another woman – her mother, no less – was unfathomable.

There was also that brief moment when Littlefinger went for the dagger and moved to attack Sansa, likely to take her hostage in order to secure his exit. It was only a second, but it was enough for Sandor to once again ponder what his life would be without this woman in it.

“Are you alright?” she asked him.

“Hmpf, I should be asking you that question.”

“I’m better than alright, though I’d feel much better if the Vale had ten times as many Knights.”

“I mean about Littlefinger, about what you had to tell.”

She cocked her head at him, and he had come to know that meant he’d said something unexpected to her. She rose and cupped his ruined cheek, “He can’t hurt me ever again, Sandor. Thanks to you. He never could, really. I’ve endured every pain a woman can be subjected to, and I’ve learned how to extricate myself from it. There is only one thing that can hurt me anymore, and only man who wields that power.”

He was confused a moment until he realized she was talking about him.

“The only thing that hurts is the thought of losing you… your love. I’m yours, Sandor – for life – I pledge it now and I’ll mean it always. I know it won’t always be easy for you to be with me… I fear it won’t be the last time I have to use tactics such as I just used with Petyr, and I know deception bothers you more than anything. But I promise to never again withhold anything from you. I want you to be my partner in these kinds of decisions, or at least be aware of them. Tell me now, Sandor, will you stay by my side? Not as my husband on a piece of parchment, but as the husband of my heart, as my one true partner in this world, above all others? No matter what… because I need to know I won’t lose you. It is hard enough to rule a Kingdom without worrying that my decisions will drive away the one thing I’m not willing to give up.”

Her words made him feel light-headed. They’d never defined their relationship, and some part of him always worried that his time with her was limited, that eventually she would realize she needed someone with more to offer, or simply tire of him and his mean temper or ugly face. She was now declaring – pledging, as she put it – that she would always be his.

_Mine. Always._

He took her hands and kissed the palm of each, not yet able to form words. She spoke instead, “I promise to never deceive you, to never manipulate you; that when we are alone together, I will always bare myself to you – all my thoughts, all my plans, all my feelings – as long as you wish to hear them. I promise to always love you before all others. You will be the sole owner of my heart.”

He felt tingling pressure build behind his eyes and in his throat, “Don’t have fancy words,” he mumbled.

“You don’t give yourself credit, but I don’t need fancy words, just honesty.”

“I promise to always speak the truth to you. I promise to be faithful to you; frankly anyone else would just be a disappointment, anyway. I promise I’ll always listen to what you have to say before judging your actions; I’ll never again forget that you have an entire Kingdom relying on you. I promise to love you until the end of my days, even when you drive me fucking mad. And I’ll never withhold my love from you again. Let our bed be a sacred place where neither of us lets our grievances taint our love.”

“Forever, Sandor.”

“Forever, Sansa.”


	103. King of his Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No - Sandor doesn't become King... but he feels like one.

**Sandor**

After their mutual pledges Sandor couldn’t help but strut around like a King. In fact, he felt even better than a King – he had the love of a true Queen as well as her ear, and her respect, but he never had to trouble himself with sitting for hours each day listening to trivial complaints, or make the impossible decisions that rulers had to make on a near daily basis.

His respect for Sansa was at an all-time high as it now became a custom for her to fill him in on the major decisions she had made that day, usually while they dined, bathed, or laid in each other’s arms before drifting to sleep. He felt a fool for ever doubting her over Littlefinger. He saw how too often she had to choose between two equally displeasing options. Frankly, he’d have simply tossed a coin saved his brain some trouble, but that was not her inclination.

Sansa was lucky in that she had the loyalty of every vassal lord and lady in the North, but that didn’t mean she always had their unequivocal approval. When she made it known which Houses would be joining the central force rather than staying to defend their own lands, she became somewhat unpopular. Eventually she had to do something she found quite distasteful – she had to silence their protestations with a fist slammed on the table and remind them that this wasn’t a request, it was a command.

Despite his former distrust of Jaime and Tyrion Lannister, Sandor found himself on multiple occasions feeling grateful for the men. Tyrion helped share the mental load with Sansa; he held court on days when she was too busy and the man seemed to be the perfect hand in other respects, as well. He always voiced his honest opinion, even when it conflicted with Sansa’s, but ultimately when he couldn’t sway her to his side, he would support her whole-heartedly in her decision.

What Jaime lent was an unparalleled expertise in war planning and battle strategy. Even those who had doubts about the man’s true loyalties in the past were now secure that he was a Stark man through and through. He was in Casterly Rock for the battle and in King’s Landing for the trial – he had ample opportunity to abandon Sansa but never did. He returned to the North even knowing that he was committing himself to what everyone feared would be the losing side.

And that was perhaps the issue that caused the most concern for Sansa, the one that had her pacing the floor at three o’clock in the morning all too often. The vastness of the north meant it would never be an easy target, but they were so greatly outnumbered by Cersei’s forces that it often felt like fighting back was pointless. Sansa admitted to Sandor one night that she was willing to bend the knee even knowing that Cersei would have her head, but that her own bannermen refused passionately. She had told them all she wanted them to seriously consider kneeling to Cersei. Edara Tallhart, who Sansa had never even felt particularly close with, took a step forward, _“Your grace, we recognize your bravery and altruïsm in making this suggestion, but if you ever say those words again we will tie you up and hide you somewhere until the war is over so you can’t kneel to that Lannister witch even if you want to. I would sooner see my head removed from my body.”_

The others nodded and Lord Reed captured their sentiment even more eloquently, _“I’d rather die for a just Queen than kneel to a mad one.”_

_“Here, here.”_

It was Tyrion who told this story at dinner that evening, and Sandor couldn’t help but laugh. “Little bird, even as your sworn shield don’t look to me for help. Hells, I’ll get them the rope.”

Tyrion faked a shiver, “I’d hate to think of what Clegane would do once having our queen tied up.”

Everyone laughed but as usual Arya let her disgust be known by dropping her fork onto her plate, “Thanks, now I’ve lost my appetite.” It only made the others laugh even harder.

In truth, even though Sandor still was technically her sworn shield Sansa forced him to temporarily give up that duty as his skills were greatly needed in the training yard. He was Brienne’s unofficial second in command as Captain of the Guards. Arya, and a number of the more senior guards, shared the responsibility for training the commoners who answered Sansa’s call to arms. Jaime would also help out when he wasn’t busy with his duties as Master-at-Arms. Tormund and a dozen of his Free Folk had also travelled to Winterfell from the Dreadfort to help. Sandor was secretly happy to be reunited with the mad ginger, and Arya immediately took to Val.

Though Sandor was reticent to leave his little bird’s side, he was grateful to be spending each day in the training yard instead of standing outside the door to her solar, or behind her at court. Ghost never left her side and Thoros volunteered to assume Sandor’s guard duty for the time being. At the man’s age and with his recent injuries he no longer had the stamina to spend hours in the training yard, but he could swing a sword as well as ever and Sandor knew he would defend Sansa to his last breath. Wanting Sansa to have one more protector at all times, he found Brant one afternoon. He and the man had remained friendly though their respective duties kept them often apart. Brant was more than happy to give up his back-breaking work as a mason and guard the queen for a few hours each day. One look at the large man – who wielded an axe instead of a sword – and the large wolf and Sandor doubted anyone would try to get to Sansa… anyone who valued his life, at least.

\--------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa was glad to find Sandor in her bedchamber when she walked through the door. He was in his breeches and tunic, sharpening his sword in front of the hearth. He put down the weapon when Sansa entered and without delay, she placed herself on his lap. He draped one arm over her thighs and the other around her back to anchor her as she nuzzled into his warm neck, breathing in his scent. The smell of his clean sweat always sent a jolt straight to her core, as the tickle of her breath on his neck had the same effect on him, she knew.

She played lazily with the hair of his beard, then smiled as the feeling of her nails scratching his skin through his coarse hair elicited a rumble from deep in his throat. She kissed the hollow of his neck where the sound was emanating from. It reminded her of the sound the hounds made when you scratched them behind their ears. She looked up to his face to find his eyes closed in relaxation. Sensing she was looking at him he opened one, “Stop staring, girl.”

She giggled as she returned her face to the crook of his neck, marveling at how after all these years of knowing this man, his plain words still sounded like poetry to her.

He seemed content to just sit and hold her like this all night. It was unusual for him not to ravish her as soon as she made herself available to him, so she knew that meant he’d had a particularly exhausting day. She slid down his long legs to kneel before him on the floor and began unlacing his breeches.

“Haven’t washed yet, little bird.”

“Good,” she responded without hesitation, and smiled again as her wanton response made his cock twitch.

She began planting light, dry kisses along the length of his half-hard shaft and within seconds it was standing at full attention. She dusted her lips over it, tickling him and making him twitch again. Satisfied he was sufficiently teased she ran her tongue from the bottom of his sac up to the tip of his cock and he reflexively grasped a handful of her hair.

“I thought I was the dog, but you’re the one doing all the sniffing and licking.”

“Mmm… you’ve done your share of sniffing and licking, as I recall.”

He chuckled but closed his eyes again, ready to lean back and enjoy the offered favor.

When she finally took him in her mouth he gasped, “Fuck, girl, what you do to me.”

She continued sucking and licking while her hand stroked at his base. She coated his entire cock and her hand with her saliva and moved her mouth and hand in tandem, leaving not one inch of him neglected.

“Gods… fuck, little bird.”

He began matching her motions with his own thrusts, and he had opened his eyes again to watch her performance, “You like sucking my cock, little bird?”

“Mmmhmm,” she moaned, without taking her mouth away from him.

“The bloody Queen in the North pleasuring a dirty old dog.”

His words, crude as they were, made her wet and hot between her legs. She moved to touch herself, but he yanked her wrist away, “No, girl… that’s my job… you focus on me now. Show me how much you want to taste my seed.”

She quickened her pace and tightened her grip, eliciting a deep moan from him.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth girl, and you can gag all you want, but I’ll not be stopping.”

He moved forward so he was sitting on the edge of the chair, with both hands now buried in her fiery mane. He was true to his word, thrusting deeply into her mouth, and gag she did. “You trust me, little bird?”

She nodded even as tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“Swallow,” he commanded as his cock pushed against the back wall of her mouth. She obeyed his command and felt him slip past her gag reflex and into her throat. He let out a deep groan but at her next attempt to inhale through her nose she felt her airway was blocked by his girth.

“It’s alright little bird,” he said – and she believed him. He thrust a few more times before commanding her again to swallow just as she felt his hot seed shoot directly into her throat. He groaned his release before collapsing back in the chair. She kneeled before him, confused about how what had just happened was even possible but so aroused she felt she would explode.

He finally opened his eyes and looked at her, “You did good, little bird. You’re so fucking perfect…” She smiled at him, the smile only he ever saw. “Now take off that dress and get on the bed.”

She wasted no time and he mocked her, “Eager little bird.” When he descended on her center with his mouth, she could tell he was shocked by how sopping wet she was, “You got this wet from swallowing my cock?”

She blushed and nodded though she knew he was only pleased by her state as he grinned devilishly before laving her with his tongue. Within a minute she was moaning and grinding against his mouth, but he pulled away cruelly.

He laughed at her disappointed whimper. After several seconds had passed, he resumed his efforts and quickly the pressure built for her again until he stopped once more.

“Sandor, please!”

“Quiet, girl. I didn’t say you could come yet.”

She grunted her discontent, but it only seemed to amuse him as he repeated the process two more times until she was so built up it was almost painful. Her barely coherent mind imagined this is what Sandor felt when they’d go more than a few days without coupling – _“I’m all backed up, girl, need to release the pressure.”_

In the midst of her thoughts he flipped her onto her belly, leaning to whisper in her ear just before he penetrated her, “You’re going to peak around my cock tonight, girl. Again and again, until I say you’ve had enough,” his gravelly voice in her ear made her even wetter, if that was possible. He thrust into her deep and slow, each stroke bringing her closer to the brink, though his pace wouldn’t let her go over yet.

Suddenly she felt an odd pressure against her backside and clenched instinctively.

“It’s alright, girl, relax. Trust me, remember?”

She was shocked but so deliriously aroused she obeyed and realized it was his thumb pressing against her hole as she felt four long fingers spread across her right cheek, “Sandor, I don’t—”

“Shh; relax and wait.”

She did as told and was surprised that once his thumb was past her entrance the pain gave way to something not quite pleasant but also not horrible. Staying relaxed took concerted effort, especially when he resumed his thrusts into her woman’s place. To her surprise the pleasure there was magnified and without even feeling the buildup Sansa came undone, peaking so hard she buried her face in the pillow so as not to wake everyone north of White Harbor.

Her face was numb and tingly, and she gradually became aware that Sandor was speaking – words of praise and adoration delivered in his own crude way. She paid them no heed. He was rubbing her back and hips, giving her time to come down from her high though not disengaging from her heat.

After a few more moments he began thrusting again, this time fast and shallow the way she liked it most, and within seconds she had her second peak – only slightly less powerful than the first. This time she was able to hear what Sandor was saying to her: “Gods you’re fucking perfect, girl. If I could design my own woman the way I can design a sword pommel she’d be you down to the last fucking detail, you know that? Everything from your head to your toes and your tight little arse hole.”

His last two words made her blush and realize his thumb was still inside her in _that place_.

_Oh Gods! I’m no better than a Flea Bottom whore!_

“Sandor—”

“Shut it girl, you think I’m doing this just for you? Don’t ruin this for me by going all Sansa.”

“What does that mean?!”

He chuckled, “All stuck in your head. Wondering what you’re doing wrong when every fucking thing you do is always right, and everyone knows it but you.”

She huffed but spoke in a flippant tone, “There’s nothing _right_ about what you just did.”

He laughed, “Good… and I think you mean what I'm _doing_ , because I’m not done with you, yet.”

“Sandor, I can’t—”

“You can and you will. Now touch yourself.”

As he resumed his thrusts she obeyed – again. And he was right – again. In a couple minutes she felt the pressure building once more, “Sandor, please, faster.”

“I’m not a fucking cart horse, girl…”

“No, you’re a dog; and a dog always obeys.”

“Hah! I suppose I can’t argue that one, can I?” he accentuated his agreement with a deep thrust that made her yelp. He continued with deep, speedy thrusts that were almost painful as she felt him press against her womb. She removed her fingers and enjoyed the feeling of his balls slapping against her nub. The thumb he’d been keeping inserted but still this entire time he started moving gently and before she knew it, she was coming hard, using the pillow once more to muffle her cries. He followed her over the edge this time, resting his forehead between her shoulder blades as the last traces of his seed sputtered into her.

Mercifully he allowed her to collapse this time, extricating himself from her entirely and retrieving a damp cloth to clean both of their bodies.

She was already drifting off to sleep when she felt him lay behind her and ensconce her in his strong arms. He pulled a blanket over both of them and nuzzled her hair as exhaustion and contentment led her to one of the best rests she’d ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went there. Probably still mild compared to smuttier fics, but if the Hound ain't a finger-in-tush kinda guy I don't know who is.


	104. Lion and Bear

**Jaime**

Jaime, Brienne, Tyrion, Podrick, and Tormund were enjoying each other’s company in the dining hall. Several Northern lords and ladies were still at Winterfell even though it was a fortnight after Sansa’s faux-betrothal feast. They remained there to plan for the upcoming war and were currently occupying the high table with Sansa.

These days Jaime gravitated between dread and glee. The dread was due to the impending confrontation – the day he would fight not just _for_ Sansa, but _against_ Cersei. The glee was entirely thanks to his blossoming but still secret love affair with Brienne. By day nothing in their relationship had changed, but by night he would find his way to her chambers. Their passion for each other was insatiable, and even when they both collapsed in bed exhausted by the day’s activities, they somehow ended up naked, a sweaty tangle of long, muscular limbs and blond hair.

He found her body quite pleasing to the eye. While she was too muscular to truly be described as feminine, her hips flared enough that her gender was undeniable. He also was surprised to find her shoulders were narrower and more rounded than he expected. The armor and men’s clothing she wore added bulk that wasn’t there, though he’d love her all the same if it was.

He was also pleasantly surprised to find that when they were alone together, she allowed him to dote on her and give her soft caresses, as if she was the fairest maiden. In the training yard they were equals – Hells, who was he kidding – she could best him any day of the week. But in the bedroom, she was all woman, and allowed herself to enjoy being held and loved by him. A few weeks with Brienne did much to ease his bitterness over the loss of his hand, which had robbed him of his identity, his potency, and his masculinity even if he’d never told anyone. With Brienne’s head resting on his chest it was easy to forget he wasn’t a whole man in every sense of the word…

He pried his eyes away from his lady love only to meet Tyrion’s, who – as usual – knew all his brother’s thoughts. Quickly turning away from Tyrion’s knowing smirk his eyes landed on Tormund, whose eyes were equally knowing, and a bit sad.

Whatever the group had been discussing while Jaime was lost in thought was interrupted by the arrival of the stout Alysane Mormont – the she-bear as she was respectfully called by all the Northmen.

She plopped heavily across from Tyrion, with a horn of ale in her hand. She drank deeply while appraising Tyrion, who wilted a bit under her scrutiny.

“Everyone’s talking about you, dwarf,” she said matter-of-factly.

Tyrion smiled, “Don’t believe a word of it, my lady.”

“Then I’d be disappointed. They say you carry an axe into battle and fight with the strength and fearlessness of a giant.”

“The axe part is true; the rest sounds like an exaggeration, or perhaps even a jape.”

“You fought beside the Great Lion, defending the father who doesn’t love you and the castle that will never be yours.”

Tyrion was momentarily at a loss for words – a rare occurrence.

He eventually cleared his throat, “I suppose we’re all just little boys trying to earn our fathers’ approval.”

“You were married to Lady Sansa when she was practically a child but didn’t consummate the marriage.”

Jaime looked to Brienne, who was equally perplexed as to why the Mormont woman was here, stating facts about Tyrion as if he needed to be educated in his own life.

Alysane continued, “Takes a strong man to resist the desire to take what is his.”

Tyrion coughed, “Perhaps it never should have been mine to begin with.”

“Aye, no doubt. But strong, nonetheless. Our Queen is beautiful,” the plain woman stated with no trace of envy, “even the most honorable among us would have difficulty resisting her.”

“Then I’ll take your words as a compliment, though I’m not sure why you’re offering it now.”

She ignored him and continued reciting his noble deeds as if she were authoring a book on his life, “You left your Braavosi whores to come serve our Queen.”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes and Jaime could tell he was embarrassed – another rare occurrence, “My lady, if this is what passes for gossip nowadays, I fear the castle is in dire need of a new scandal.”

Quick as a snake she pulled Tyrion toward her by the collar, practically dragging his little body onto the table, and kissed him squarely on the lips. She released him only after enough of the hall had fallen silent around them, shocked by the display.

“Scandalous enough for you, little lion?” she winked, before downing her ale and returning to her seat at the high table, where Sansa was sitting with eyes popping out of her head.

For the second time that night, Tyrion was speechless, but this time he wasn’t alone.

After long seconds Jaime found himself chuckling, and soon he was joined by Tormund and even Brienne and Podrick, though Tyrion didn't recover so quickly. Staring in disbelief at the empty chair Alysane had just vacated, he pressed two fingers to his mouth, "I was just mauled by a bear..." he looked up at Jaime, "and I think I liked it."


	105. Guilt

**Sandor**

The next day at dawn Sandor was headed for the kennels to take his dogs on a hunt. The castle was crowded and busy these days, and he longed for the quiet of the woods.

Unfortunately Jon Stark had other plans as he approached Sandor in the courtyard, “I heard you’re going on a hunt.”

“Aye.”

“Would you mind some company?”

Sandor did mind but wasn’t about to insult the young Lord.

“I don’t mind _quiet_ company. It’s a hunt not a bloody garden party,” he grumbled.

Much like his sisters, the wolf was not intimidated by the dog, “Believe it or not, Clegane, I’ve done this a few times before.”

Sandor grunted his agreement.

After rousing the squires who’d join them the group set off – six men and four hounds.

Jon was true to his word, keeping his mouth shut, and by the end of that first day they had killed three deer and several wild turkeys. That night the men shared a log and sipped their wineskins in silence while the young squires chatted amongst themselves several yards away.

Jon cleared his throat, “Might I inquire as to how my oldest sister is doing?”

Sandor didn’t look at him, “You can inquire with her yourself, she’s your bloody sister.”

“I mean to find out how she’s _really_ doing, not how she tells me she is doing.”

Sandor snorted, “You know her well Lord Stark… too worried about burdening anyone else to ever share her woes.”

Jon smiled wistfully, “Gods, I never thought I’d miss the way she was when she was younger, so quick to complain when things weren’t going her way – like when Arya was being a nuisance, which was always.”

“Can’t survive that viper’s nest they call the capital if you call attention to yourself… your sister learned that the hard way.”

Jon took a deep breath, “You know, she still hasn’t told me anything, at least not in any detail. I only know what I’ve heard through others – Jaime, Brienne, Theon – after all this time she still won’t talk about it… about Joffrey or Ramsay. Part of me doesn’t even want to know…”

Sandor sighed, “It’s not because she doesn’t trust you, she just doesn’t think talking about the past is a good use of her time. She’s practical to a fucking fault,” he chucked an acorn into the fire.

With preparations for the upcoming battle it had been easy for Sandor to forget all that had transpired in King’s Landing, but it flooded back into his mind now, and he wanted to scream at Jon for being the reason these maddening thoughts came back to him. But there was something else, a feeling Sandor rarely had with anyone but the little bird – he _wanted_ to talk about this. He wanted to unburden himself of his anger and pain, but he dared not bring up the subject with Sansa or Arya.

Before he knew it, he was telling Jon everything – or at least the parts he knew about Sansa’s past and her imprisonment in King’s Landing, which still wasn’t much.

Jon looked solemn when he faced Sandor again, “She’s lucky to have you, Sandor.”

Sandor shrugged, “I’m the lucky one, not her. She’s got to put up with my ugly face, my temper, my crude words… I get to be with the prettiest, kindest, smartest, strongest woman who’s ever lived. I still worry that this is a dream I’m going to wake up from.”

Jon laughed, “I won’t bother arguing with you; I know it’s easier to hate ourselves – that way, we’re less likely to be disappointed when we fuck up.”

“Gods you’re just like your sister. I feel like every bloody conversation is a lesson from a maester.”

Jon laughed again but then grew serious, “You still didn’t answer my question: how is my sister?”

Sandor exhaled, not entirely sure he knew the answer, “I think she’s alright, under the circumstances. Carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, but that’s nothing new. I don’t think she’s dwelling on the past, I think she’s always looking forward, so I suppose that’s good. Then again forward is likely to be just as fucked up as back, so fuck all if I know.”

“Aye, about that…”

“What?” Sandor raised an eyebrow at the boy.

“Sansa will have me at Castle Black during the war, as you know…”

“Aye, she’s told me.”

“You and I both know she’ll never abandon her people, her home, again…”

“Aye…”

“I’d like to ask a favor, Clegane… and I know it’s a big one, and I know it will mean suffering my sister’s wrath, but… if things are bleak, if there is no hope, make her come north, or wherever you have to go to be out of harm’s way. If that means hitting her over the head and literally carrying her, do it… please.”

Sandor appraised him, “You love your sister that much or you that afraid of being in charge?”

Jon looked insulted, “Both, but more the former. I don’t know what Sansa has told you about our childhood… we weren’t close, and she wasn’t particularly kind to me, but I always knew it was because of Lady Catelyn. Sansa wanted to be like her in every way, and that included the way she treated me. But I always saw the other side to my sister. She was graceful and kind, even to servants. I loved her for who I knew her to be, even if it was not the person she was to me. Does that make sense?”

Sandor smiled, “As a matter of fact, Lord Stark, it does. It reminds me of how she was when she first came to the capital. There were two Sansas. The one she was around Joffrey and Cersei, and the one she was around me. She was the first person in that cesspool that treated me like a man and not a dog. She was kind to me even when I frightened her. She hated seeing anyone treated unfairly. She once saved a disgraced knight who had earned Joffrey’s scorn. It was a brave thing to do, though she’d never have thought of herself as brave. She almost killed Joffrey once, even though it would have meant her death, did she ever tell you that?”

Jon laughed, “Aye, but to hear her tell it _you_ were the hero of that story, stopping her from doing something that would get her killed – so, as you say, she never thinks herself brave.”

Sandor snorted, “Funny how that’s still the case. I’m surprised she doesn’t say she jumped on the dragon’s back not to kill Daenerys but because she felt like going for a ride.”

Jon laughed deeply at that and Sandor shared in his amusement, “Or that she didn’t name me champion at her trial not to protect me, but because she was eager to try out her new daggers.”

The men drank and laughed for another hour before passing out in their tents.

The next afternoon when they rode through the Hunter’s Gate at Winterfell there was an unspoken bond between the men, and their newfound respect for one another would quickly pay off, as a red-faced Arya stomped to the kennels to find them. Without preamble she jabbed a finger into Sandor’s chest, “You need to talk some sense into your ‘little bird’!”

Before he could reply she repeated the gesture on Jon, “And _you_ – don’t even think about agreeing with her!”

Five minutes later the trio arrived outside Sansa’s solar and Arya didn’t hesitate before barging in. With one look Sansa seemed to know what this was about, “Brought backup, sister?”

“I brought people you might listen to, since you clearly don’t listen to me.”

“And why should I listen to you when you have no leg to stand on?”

Jon rubbed a hand down his face, “Can one of you tell us what is going on?”

Arya spit out a response, “The _Queen_ has declared that I am to travel north with you when you depart for Castle Black; that it won’t be safe here for me once the war starts.”

Sansa remained calm, “Because it _won’t_ be safe here.”

Arya was not deterred, “Nor will it be safe for you, but you’re staying!”

“Because I’m the Queen, Arya. Rulers don’t flee to safety after ordering their people to fight and die. You know this.”

“I’m a better fighter than you and a better fighter than most of your soldiers; you need me here!”

“I need you where it is safe, to help Jon and to carry on the Stark legacy if it should come to that. It won’t be easy up there either, there will be hunting, fighting… he needs good fighters there just as I need them here.”

“So then if both places are dangerous what difference does it make where I am?”

“Because it’s _less_ dangerous there, and more importantly it’s further from Cersei’s grasp. Her men will no doubt be looking for you, me, and Jon.”

“So? I’m not afraid to die!”

“Well I am afraid of you dying! Does that make me so horrible in your eyes?!”

“Everyone dies, Sansa. I can die up there from a bear attack, from the cold, from anything!”

“I will not argue this with you. I have made my decision and it’s final; and if you refuse then you’ll be locked in your room and guarded until Jon departs.”

“I _hate_ you! Who are you to decide how I live and how I die? If I’m willing to die with a sword in my hand, fighting for my home, then you shouldn’t care. You’re just trying to control me like you did when we were children!”

Sandor saw something snap in the little bird, and a rage filled her eyes like he’d rarely seen before, “You think death is all there is to fear? You believe that’s the worst thing that can happen to a person? I _know_ Cersei Lannister… if there is a chance to bring any of us in alive her men will be instructed to do so – not to make us bend the knee, not to execute us in the capital, but so she can have her revenge. She’ll hurt you to hurt me. She will do things to you that you can’t even imagine.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “I’ve taken my beatings, I’ve been injured; Hells I’ve even been stabbed!”

Sansa threw her head back and laughed maniacally. Jon and Sandor exchanged a nervous glance

“Stabbed? _Stabbed?_ Yes, I too have been stabbed, and shot with arrows… it all dulls in comparison to what Cersei would do to you. Have you ever been whipped, Arya? Or had flesh peeled off slowly? Or been burned, branded? That’s what Cersei’s men were _going_ to do to me until they saw I’d already survived as much. So they had to get creative…. Have you ever been drowned over and over again until every breath you take feels like inhaling flaming-hot shards of glass? Or submerged in ice water until your body literally starts to shut down? Have you ever felt pain so severe that you actually thank the Gods for the relief that comes while you’re being raped?”

Sandor felt like he would be sick and by the look of it, Jon was in the same state, though Sansa seemed to be oblivious to their reactions as she snarled at her little sister, who was white as a sheet. “Well, have you?!” Sansa slammed a hand down on the table.

Arya swallowed so hard Sandor heard it from across the room. Then she shook her head.

Sansa’s lips were curled back like the wolf she was as she leaned down to meet her sister’s eyes, “Then shut up and stop pretending you know a damned thing. When Cersei’s soldiers and the Ironborn arrive you’ll be nowhere near this place. I couldn’t save father, or mother, or Robb, or Bran, or Rickon. I couldn’t save Theon. Or Lady. But I can save you and I can save Jon; and if you try to stand in my way you won’t like what happens. You can ride north freely with your sword in your hand, or you can go tied up and thrown in a cart, but either way you’re going north.” She turned her back and stared out the window, dismissing her company without a word.

For the first time since Sandor had met her, Arya was speechless. She nodded, even though Sansa could not see her, and backed out of the room followed by Jon and Sandor. Jon started to walk after her, but Sandor pulled him back, “Let her go, boy. She needs to be alone now. And I need to get piss drunk. You coming?”

With three wineskins apiece the men walked to Jon’s quarters and drank in silence until the heinous images were out of their minds. It was in quite inebriated states that Arya found them an hour later. She didn’t meet either’s eyes before taking one of the wineskins from Jon and joining him on the padded bench beneath the window. Sandor sat in a large wooden chair. No one spoke or made eye contact, but they were content to have it that way, or so it seemed, until Arya stood up and kicked a small trunk across the room.

The tears started as a trickle then turned into a flood as she slid to the ground and buried her face between her knees, “I was so fucking stupid! Why did I never go back for her? I knew Sansa was alive. I knew Joffrey was dead. I got on a fucking ship to Braavos. I abandoned my sister.”

“Girl, you didn’t have an army at your disposal, what good would it have done other than getting yourself killed, or joining your sister as the Crown’s hostage? Or Littlefinger’s?”

“I could have snuck in the Red Keep easily. I could have found Sansa and convinced her to leave. Everything would have been different. She’d never have gone with Petyr, never have married Ramsay. She’d not even have been present for Joffrey’s death, so Cersei would have no reason to accuse her of his murder. _Everything_ would be different.”

“Aye, might be you’d both be dead by now.”

“The pack is always stronger than the lone wolf.”

“Enough with that shite, you Starks and your _packs_.”

Arya pulled at a thread in her trousers, her indignant pout revealing her youth, “You shouldn’t call it shite; you’re a part of her pack now. That means she’d die for you; do you know that? Brienne told me what happened the day before Sansa’s trial, when you met with Cersei… how even after everything Sansa had been put through, she was still thinking about _you_. She called you the Hound, she was harsh to you, and she did it to protect you… she did it so Cersei wouldn’t know how much she cares about you because then she would hurt you to get to Sansa.”

Sandor swallowed a lump. In the commotion of everything that had happened in those dreadful days he’d forgotten all about that, but he knew the little wolf was right. He shook away the troublesome truth, “Then have your fucking guilt, who am I to stop you? Gods know I’ve got plenty of my own.” With nothing more he cared to say to the brooding siblings he stumbled into Sansa’s bedchamber and collapsed into bed beside her. He knew she was awake but didn’t know whether or not to be glad of it.

Eventually he reached for her hand, “You should have told me, little bird. Why do you always carry these burdens alone?”

She shrugged, “I didn’t want to make you angry or upset.”

He shook his head, “Does your courtesy know no bounds?” He meant it seriously, but she seemed to think he was teasing her.

“I suppose that’s on the list of things you _don’t_ love about me.”

They were quiet for a few more minutes until Sandor worked up the courage to ask the question whose answer would leave him undoubtedly in a fit of fury, “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“Who?”

“It will just make you angry, Sandor. It doesn’t matter. I meant what I said, it was hardly the worst part. To you maybe it should be, but it wasn’t.”

“Who?!” he didn’t mean to shout but that’s exactly how the question came out on his third attempt.

He heard her sigh loudly before finally answering, “Blount and Kettleblack.”

As expected, the rage was all-consuming; suffocating. He thought there was no man he could hate more than he hated Ramsay Bolton and Littlefinger, but he’d been so wrong. The freshness of this made it all the more potent. His legs screamed to ride to King’s Landing. His hands itched for violence and death. Visions of broken fingers, sliced open bellies and cocks split down the middle danced in his mind. The desire to hurt and kill became as commanding in that moment as the desire to eat and fuck in other moments. He wanted to do horrible things not just to Blount and Kettleblack but to Cersei that blond bitch and every man who swore loyalty to her.

But among the men who deserved his contempt, he himself was top of the list. _What good am I? I swore to keep her safe, I’ve sworn it to her and myself so many times. I’ve said I’d kill anyone who hurt her… but in the time since I’ve been back, she’s been killed, kidnapped, tortured, beaten, and raped. Her life hasn’t improved one bit with me in it._

He let the feeling of utter uselessness wash over him. He wanted to drown in it. All he ever had to give her was strong arms and love; he had no name, no titles, no power, and that’s what she truly needed. His arms couldn’t protect her from physical harm, his love couldn’t protect her from emotional harm inflicted not just by others but by himself when his temper got the better of him.

_But there is something you can do, dog. You can ride to King’s Landing and gut both those cocksuckers…_

Sandor knew all the winesinks and brothels in the city – he’d have little trouble finding Blount and Kettleblack, and neither was a match for him.

_But you don’t exactly blend in; you’ll be spotted before you even reach the gates of the city. Besides, Cersei is the real problem. She’s the one giving the commands. Killing her would solve all the little bird’s problems. With any luck Tywin Lannister will take the throne and leave the North in peace._

_But how to get to Cersei? There is no way I could get to her._

_But maybe I know someone who could…_

He wasn’t sure how long they laid in silence. A minute? An hour? But he realized the little bird had said something.

“Hmm?”

She was facing him now, stroking his cheek, “Come back to me.”

“I’m right here, little bird.”

“No, you’re not. Tell me where you went.”

He couldn’t look her in the eyes though he felt hers boring into his skull, “I fucking failed you. Again. It’s all I ever do. I can’t keep you safe, Sansa. I’m no fucking good for you, or for anyone.”

“Sandor, how can you even possibly think that?”

“Do I need to remind you of every horrible thing that’s happened to you since I’ve been back?”

“Do I need to remind you of every horrible thing that happened to me _before_ you came back?”

“None of that matters, I’m supposed to protect you. It’s all I fucking want to do and it never fucking works!” he ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated.

He looked up and was surprised to see a grin on Sansa’s face.

“What?”

“You’re the reason I’m sane. You’re the only thing that makes me happy. It’s so much easier getting out of bed in the morning knowing I have you. The others – Jon, Brienne, Jaime, Tyrion, Thoros, now Arya… I care about them, I love them, but they’re not what keeps me going. _You_ are.”

Her words almost cooled his rage until he remembered how much she’d been through, “It’s not enough. Love isn’t enough to keep you safe. I want to _protect_ you first and foremost. If you threw me out of your bed right now, I’d still guard your back, but to what good? All the years I protected Cersei Lannister then Joffrey Baratheon they were never harmed on my watch. And Gods, how I wish they had been, the fuckers. Finally I have someone worthy of protecting and I fail her at every turn.”

Her grin didn’t waver, “How can you protect someone who jumps into a yard filled with wights and White Walkers? Or onto the back of a dragon? Or who calls Cersei Lannister a bitch in front of her entire court? Or who doesn’t let you act as her champion in a fight against your giant, undead brother?”

He was about to protest but his curiosity got the better of him, “You called Cersei a bitch at court?”

Sansa bit her lip and nodded, “In my defense, I’d been in a crate for nearly a fortnight and then walked barefoot to and through the city. I was rather grouchy at the moment.”

Sandor laid back again and suddenly couldn’t resist the need to laugh thoroughly, “Oh, what I’d give to see that.”

“Glad I can amuse you,” Sansa muttered.

He turned his head to look at her, “So… was it worth it?”

She sighed and seemed to be seriously considering it before answering candidly, “Almost.”

He shook his head incredulously. A few more minutes passed in silence, both no doubt thinking about all the near-death experiences Sansa had gotten herself into.

“Why have the Gods made me love such a reckless woman?”

She smiled, “Then I trust you hear what I’m saying.”

He pulled her in for a kiss, “Loud and clear… if I want to protect you, I should never let you out of this room… or better yet, this bed,” he fell back, pulling her with him and earning a gleeful chirp.


	106. Hope

**Sansa**

Sometime before dawn Sansa awoke to the sound of Sandor snoring. It was a sound she had grown to associate with comfort and safety, so she snuggled further into him and his arms tightened around her of their own will even as their master continued slumbering.

Sansa had fallen asleep regretting the way she handled the situation with her sister. She truly never wanted Arya to be burdened with the knowledge of what Sansa had lived through. She didn’t want Arya to feel any guilt or pity. When she accosted her in her solar – having roped Jon and Sandor into her scheme – Sansa was angry. When Arya continued to defy her, she became livid; she said things she never wanted to say out loud and couldn’t stop the words from pouring out. She hated losing control – it made her feel weak and womanly.

_Father never lost his temper._

Several minutes later, knowing sleep would evade her Sansa quietly rose and began her morning routine quietly to avoid waking Sandor. Once dressed she went to her next-door solar and began her work. Today she would send ravens to her uncle Edmure, Yara Greyjoy, Ser Bryan Telford in the Vale, and Shireen Baratheon in Dragonstone.

To Ser Bryan she asked for an update on how people in the Vale had reacted to learning of Petyr Baelish’s trial and death at Winterfell, as well as how his preparations were going for the upcoming war.

To her uncle she sent a plea – one she did not expect to have answered. There was no way her uncle would pledge his men to fight with Sansa’s when it would mean pitting himself against the Crown and the West, but it was worth the parchment to know for certain.

To Yara, Sansa wrote of Theon’s heroic death, not to mention the ways he had served House Stark and Sansa admirably. Tears came to her eyes as she wrote of him. She’d hardly allowed herself the chance to mourn either Theon or Ser Beric, but the tears she’d resisted to this point found their way out now.

She also implored Yara to join their cause in the upcoming war, pointing out that should Cersei succeed in taking the North, there would be nothing stopping her and Euron from attacking the Iron Islands. Even with Yara’s numbers the North would remain vastly outnumbered, but she tried to convince Yara that joining together was in their mutual interest.

She sent a similar plea to Shireen Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon’s only living heir. After the Lannisters and Tyrells defeated Stannis in the Battle of the Blackwater, Shireen went into hiding with a group of men loyal to the last trueborn Baratheon. Later, after Daenerys Targaryen had departed the island of Dragonstone to unleash her wrath on Westeros, Shireen’s men claimed the island. Since then it was heard that men still loyal House Baratheon – or at least _against_ House Lannister – travelled to Dragonstone to pledge themselves to the young Lady Baratheon.

Sansa had no idea how many men Shireen now had in her army. Tyrion said it could be one hundred or ten thousand – but was most likely somewhere in between.

Five days later Sansa was surprised to have a reply from Shireen. She agreed to meet with the Queen in the North, agreeing that their interests were aligned. She stated that she would journey to White Harbor by ship, departing in four days. It would take her another sennight to arrive at the port town, which meant that as Sansa read the parchment Shireen was only nine days away.

Sansa ran – quite improperly – to the training yard. Finding Sandor she panted out her order, “We need to ride to White Harbor.”

“When?”

“Now!”

“What? Why?”

“I’ll explain on the way. Can you have us ready to leave before midday?”

“Aye, but…”

Sansa was already running off before he could ask her any more questions. She found Jon speaking with Ser Jaime and dragged them both to her solar where Tyrion was working. She told them all about Shireen’s response, then turned to her brother, “Jon, I leave Winterfell in your hands. I’ll be gone about three weeks, so you’ll have to delay your departure to Castle Black.”

“Sansa, why not let me go in your stead, as your representative?” Jon implored.

“Thank you, Jon, I have every faith in you, but I will not risk Shireen being insulted by my absence. She has agreed to come to _our_ territory, so I must reciprocate her respect and trust.”

Jon nodded his understanding.

“Jaime, I know you are busy here, but I think it may be best for you to join as well, for two reasons… one, if Shireen and I reach an agreement I will want you and her commanders to begin planning for the war immediately. And two, she needs to accept the fact that I have Lannister men in my service if this alliance is to work. She must meet you and understand that your loyalty is to House Stark, not House Lannister, or else I’m afraid she will be reticent to ally with us. Do you agree?”

Jaime nodded, “Most wise, my lady. My second-in-command, Ser Doyle, is quite capable of filling in while I’m gone.”

“Good. Then go prepare, Ser Jaime. We leave at midday.”

Jaime bowed his exit and Jon followed. Tyrion stared at Sansa, “Funny that you think Jaime is the better Lannister to bring…”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Tyrion, you know Jon will need you here, and I won’t lie – I fear that your presence will incite her and her men – your role in the Battle of the Blackwater is well known and no doubt etched in their memory. Let Jaime warm them up to the notion of being on the same side as a Lannister; he was a captive for most of the Five Kings War.”

Tyrion nodded, “Very well. Anything specific you’d have me do during your absence?”

“Nothing you’d need my instruction on… help Jon but give him a long leash; it’s good practice for when he someday has his own castle to run. Oh and send a raven to White Harbor – tell Lord Manderly to expect us eight days from now, Shireen in nine.”

At noon Sansa joined Sandor, Jaime, Podrick, eight guards, and four hounds by the South Gate. Her mare was already saddled and waiting for her. Much to her dismay Arya was also there, arguing with Sandor, and Sansa was sure of the subject.

Sansa began speaking before she reached the group, “Arya, you need to stay here; with Sandor gone and Jon running the castle we need you helping Brienne train the recruits.”

“That won’t work on me, sister – don’t give me that ‘I need you here’ bullshit.”

“Fine! Then I _want_ you to stay here. We’ll be vulnerable on the road, if we’re attacked, I’d rather we lose one Stark not two!”

“Who’s going to attack? There are no bandits dumb enough to attack the Hound and the Kingslayer, not to mention the dogs – and Cersei’s men are still in the capital. Tyrion’s spies have told us as much. The snows aren’t going to melt before we get back to Winterfell.”

“Arya, I don’t have time for this now.”

“No, you don’t, but I have nothing but time,” she crossed her arms defiantly.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them the grin on Arya’s face meant her sister already knew her answer, “Fine. Then go get Ghost from Jon – if you’re not back in five minutes we’re leaving without you.”

Sansa felt Sandor’s eyes on her, “Don’t you dare say a word,” she mumbled. He did a poor job of hiding his smirk.

A few minutes later the group departed, with one more human and one more wolf than they had among them originally. They traveled light, knowing they could re-supply at Castle Cerwyn and then at each of the three villages between there and White harbor.

…

For the sake of propriety Sansa shared a tent with Arya instead of Sandor. Though she missed his warmth and his reassuring snores, she was secretly glad for some time with her sister. They laid in bed each night exchanging stories and reminiscing about their childhood. By the third night on the road Sandor was grouchy and directed his foul mood at Arya, who seemed to revel in his discomfort. That night Arya asked Sansa the question she’d been holding back for months, “Why him?”

Sansa shrugged, “I can give you a hundred reasons but none of them would make you understand.”

“Try me.”

Sansa sighed, and couldn’t help but smile as she thought about Sandor, “He’s loyal, he’s protective… he’s honest to a fault. He cares about me. He’s strong but gentle, and he’s honorable in his own way even though he’ll never admit it.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Gods you’re such a girl. You just described Brienne of Tarth and half the men at Winterfell. Why _him?”_

“That’s why I said you wouldn’t understand. Attraction goes beyond all the qualities you can list on a scroll. There’s something… I don’t know… spiritual about it. Or maybe primal. I really don’t know, I only know that his voice makes me weak in the knees, his scent makes me wanton, his kiss makes me melt…”

“Ugh, I’m sorry I asked.”

Sansa laughed, “Haven’t you ever felt that way about a boy?”

Arya shrugged, “There was a boy, his name was Gendry. I was with him before Sandor.”

Sansa shot up, eager to hear about this boy who’d managed to capture the attention of her wild little sister.

“Don’t get all excited, Sansa. We never even kissed.”

“But you wanted to?”

“I suppose. He was rather handsome, and so strong! He’d been a blacksmith’s apprentice and his arms and shoulders…” Arya smiled as if picturing him.

Sansa was grinning, “Then you know how it feels. Because there are plenty of handsome boys at Winterfell with strong arms and shoulders.”

Arya nodded, “I guess. But the Hound’s not handsome.”

“He is to me. His makes other faces look boring to me. Men without scars just look soft and weak now. When I look at him, I see a survivor; a man who had every reason to become the same monster his brother was but didn’t. It’s easy to be good-hearted when you were raised by Catelyn and Ned Stark, when your brothers loved you fiercely. He had none of that… so little love in his life. None, really, until I came along. Can you imagine living thirty years without love?”

Arya shook her head, “I guess you’re right. Honestly, he’s not that bad, but don’t tell him I said that. It’s just that you’re beautiful, you’re a queen – you could have any man in the North.”

“But there is only one I want.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

He could not take one more day of this torture – watching the little bird in her riding breeches atop her mare. Was she really so oblivious to the effect she had on him and every other man?

Sandor cursed the sun that warmed each afternoon. She’d remove her cloak and put it in her saddle bag, and immediately ten sets of male eyes found her. Even the fucking Kingslayer and his shy squire cast glances. Sandor knew none of these men would act on their urges, but that didn’t stop the jealousy he felt. The emotion was second only to his need. Keeping his cock soft had never been such a trial. 

_Tonight I’m kicking the little wolf out of their tent._

That night Podrick took first watch, and Sandor knew the boy could keep his mouth shut, not that it was really a secret that he and the little bird were a couple, he just didn’t want her to be the subject of gossip. Sandor waited until the last guards went to their tents and was about to go to Sansa’s when the little wolf herself emerged and approached him.

_Great, now what?_

She sat on the log beside him, and Ghost laid at her feet.

“Go on,” she said, without making eye contact, nodding her head toward the tent she’d just exited.

Sandor was shocked but didn’t waste a second of the roughly two hours he’d have with his woman. He crept into her tent and was pleased to find her still awake.

She sat up, furs falling away from her body that was clothed only in a shift, “It was her idea, for the record.”

“Best idea she’s ever fucking had then.” He descended on her hungrily, claiming her lips as his hands reached under her shift to pull off her smallclothes, “Talk later, I need inside you, woman.”

She purred at his words and he knew it to mean she was ready and thank the Gods because he could not wait another second. He pushed into her and felt her tight young flesh yield to him.

“Gods, been too long, Sandor, you’re too big.”

He growled at her words which were the highest form of praise, in his opinion, “You’re just right, little bird. Tight as ever, fit me like a glove.”

He grunted as he pounded into her fast and deep, just the way she liked it. Her pleasure was building but he wouldn’t last to see it through as his balls clenched and he spilled himself deep inside her.

“Sorry, lit—”

“Shut up and don’t you dare stop… almost there…” she ordered.

He gave her a few more thrusts and sure enough she clamped down on him, finding her release. The spasms of her channel tickled his over-sensitive cock, but she locked him in place with her ankles crossed behind his back. He leaned down on his elbows – one on either side of her head and kissed her contently, reminding himself to thank the little wolf later.


	107. Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets new and old faces.

**Sansa**

Shireen Baratheon was not what Sansa expected – and that was a good thing. At five and ten, the girl had a grace and an intelligence not normally seen in women twice her age. She had long chestnut brown hair, alert blue eyes, and fair skin. Half her face was pretty, while the other was cracked and discolored from the Greyscale she’d been afflicted with as a babe. Without knowing the girl well, Sansa hoped some young man would love her the way Sansa loved Sandor despite – or perhaps _because of_ – his scars.

She and Sansa met in a private dining hall in New Castle, lent to them by Lord Manderly for the evening. Arya, Sandor, and Jaime were present on her side of the table. On Shireen’s side sat a man she introduced as her advisor – Ser Davos Seaworth – and another man she introduced as the commander of Shireen’s forces – a Ser Iain Waters.

 _Waters – a bastard name._ Sansa had come to respect lords and ladies that gave baseborn men the opportunity to rise high in their ranks. Even if Shireen’s options were limited, it spoke to her character.

After the introductions and niceties were exchanged Shireen spoke first – a slight breach of etiquette, “Your grace, my men have informed me that the Crown and the Ironborn plan to invade the North by land and sea come Spring. They’ve also told me that you haven’t nearly the numbers to defend your Kingdom.”

“You are well-informed, my lady. Indeed the North has many things to its advantage – superior fighters – most of whom are mounted, knowledge of the terrain, a geographically-dispersed Kingdom, and several very strong fortresses. Cersei’s sole advantage is in the numbers – of both men and ships.”

“From what my advisor says, her numbers are more than enough to cripple you.”

Sansa shifted, and Shireen continued, “Your grace, do not misinterpret my words, I only wish to establish facts before we discuss a potential alliance.”

Sansa nodded, “Your advisors are correct in terms of pure numbers, though the North has never been taken by siege in the eight thousand years the Starks have ruled it. Having said that, we indeed are looking to boost our numbers, to elevate our chances.”

Shireen nodded, “Let me be clear, your grace. I pray you will be triumphant in the coming war; however my first priority is the survival of the men loyal to me. I cannot commit them to a hopeless cause. Convince me that with my support your cause is not hopeless.”

Jaime was about to speak but Sansa silenced him with a raised hand, “Might I inquire as to how many men you would potentially commit to our cause, in order to answer your question?”

Shireen studied her a moment then looked to Davos, who nodded. “Without leaving Dragonstone vulnerable, I’d be able to lend 5,000 men and ten warships.”

Sansa was disappointed, though not surprised. This was hardly enough to make a difference. Now she wrestled with two options: convince Shireen to join her even though it would likely mean death for her 5,000 men or be honest and tell her to stay at Dragonstone.

Jaime answered while Sansa was still deliberating, “Lady Baratheon, forgive my interruption, but I’ve known Lady Sansa long enough to know she rarely speaks in her own favor. You ask if our cause is hopeless. The truth is, even with your support, we are vastly outnumbered. However such was also the case when the Army of the Dead toppled the Wall and attacked Winterfell. It was also the case when we fought Daenerys Targaryen at Casterly Rock. Cersei has an estimated 200,000 men at her disposal. Even with the Knights of the Vale at our side, we have less than a third of that…”

Sansa noticed Ser Iain and Ser Davos wince, but Jaime continued, “But we have something they don’t – we have the Queen in the North. All 70,000 of our men and women will die for her. Cersei cannot say the same. Quite truthfully if it was this _one woman_ against an army of 200,000, I still wouldn’t call it hopeless.”

Sansa blushed at his open admiration, exaggerated as it was. Shireen nodded, “Your respect for your Queen is apparent, especially considering it is your own sister you are opposing. I’m curious, Ser Jaime, if this war came down to your Queen’s life or your sister’s, which would you choose?”

Jaime blushed slightly but didn’t shy away from the question, “A fair question, my lady. I will never rejoice in Cersei’s death, but the woman I knew and loved as my sister is gone. Truthfully, I sometimes doubt she ever existed, or if I just chose to see good in her that wasn’t there. Put me in a room with Cersei, Sansa, and a dagger – it will be Sansa and I who walk out alive.”

Sansa couldn’t resist the need to give Jaime her thanks and her comfort; she squeezed his hand briefly and smiled at him.

“Lady Shireen, Ser Jaime’s faith in me is appreciated, but I’d never lure you into an alliance under false pretense. The odds are against us. If you join our cause, please do so in hopes of mutual victory, but in acknowledgement that it will very likely not be the case.”

Davos spoke, “By saying that, your grace, you already prove to be a better ruler than Cersei or any of her predecessors.”

“Thank you, Ser Davos, though that isn’t saying much, is it?” she smirked at the kindly man and he chuckled in response.

“Now, Lady Shireen, I assume if you choose to join us there is something you hope to gain?”

The girl nodded, “The end of Cersei’s reign is reward enough, but yes, there is something I covet – Storm’s End, my family home and Kingdom. I wish to see the Stormlands returned to House Baratheon so that I can personally see them returned to their former glory.”

“You wish to be Wardeness of the Stormlands? Do you not feel you have a claim to the Iron Throne? Would you not ask the North to help you take the throne?”

Shireen shook her head, “I don’t want it. As far as I’m concerned, if all the stories I’ve heard about you are true, the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms is sitting across from me.”

Sansa flinched at her words. To Sansa, victory meant ridding the North of all Cersei’s influence for good and finally securing peace for her Kingdom. She assumed Cersei would continue sitting the throne regardless of the outcome of the war. But at hearing Shireen’s words a different reality sunk in: _Cersei will never stop… she’ll never leave the North in peace._

Sansa realized everyone was waiting for her reply, “Lady Baratheon, I have no desire to sit the throne, either.”

Arya elbowed her but Sansa shot her a threatening look.

Davos cleared his throat, “I believe that matter can be decided at a later date. Too many things would need to go our way before such a decision would need to be made.”

Shireen nodded, “I must speak to my advisors, but let me confirm the rough terms I am considering: if I pledge you 5,000 men and ten warships, you will help me retake the Stormlands, assuming we are victorious over Cersei Lannister’s armies?”

Sansa agreed without hesitation.

“I’d also like some assurances, your grace – that if you _would_ decide to take the throne from Cersei, that I’d have representation on your small council. I’d also like to see our families joined through marriage.”

“The former would not be an issue, though I must point out I have only one brother, and I would not negotiate a marriage for him without his consent. Perhaps we could work to join our families in some other way – one of my most loyal vassals wedding one of yours, for instance. But I truly do not seek the Iron Throne.”

Shireen nodded though her eyes betrayed skepticism. Sansa ignored it for now; Shireen did not know Sansa; it would take time for trust to be established.

“May I ask, Lady Baratheon, what you would do with Dragonstone?”

“I’ll not give up this island until the Stormlands are secured for my people, though truthfully this dreary place holds little appeal to me; I’d be open to an exchange when the time comes… if the time comes.”

Sansa nodded. Dragonstone was indeed not a warm place, but it was all but impenetrable when properly defended, and it was just east of the Crownlands. Having a presence there would be a constant threat to whoever sat the throne, an insurance policy, Sansa thought – but that, too, was a thought for another time.

Shireen and her men were escorted to their guest quarters, leaving Sansa, Sandor, Arya, and Jaime alone in the dining hall.

“You know it’s not enough, little bird.”

“No, but it will have to be. There is still Yara Greyjoy and my uncle Edmure. We don’t need to match Cersei’s 200,000 men, but the closer we get the more likely our other advantages will be enough to tip the scales in our favor.”

Sandor nodded.

Arya stood, hands on hips, “Why don’t you want the throne?” she spoke as if it were an accusation.

Sansa rubbed her forehead, “Arya, that would mean not just beating back Cersei’s forces but also fighting them in their own territory. I’ll not risk more Northern lives to claim a throne I don’t want in the first place.”

“So you’ll let Cersei continue sitting on it? Wait for her to raise another army?”

“She won’t have the money to raise another army; I doubt she’ll have the money to repay the loan for the one she has now.”

“Perhaps not, but she can send an assassin, like the Dragon Queen did.”

“She would have done that by now.”

“Not necessarily, she hasn’t been that desperate. She’s still not, but if you beat her in the war to come, she will be. And she’ll be even madder than she is now.”

“What exactly are you suggesting, Arya?”

“That you take the throne! How else can you ensure the North is left alone? If you don’t want to rule it then appoint a good Hand – someone you trust – then you can drink and hunt and fuck all day like King Robert did while Jon Arryn and then father ruled the Kingdom for him.”

“Even if I wanted the throne – which I don’t – I told you, we’d not be able to take it by force.”

“You might not need to take it by force – Brienne told me how all the Southerners were chanting your name during the trial. If you beat back Cersei, perhaps her men and allies will join your side. Get people to enlist in your army; promise them peace and prosperity after you take the throne.”

Jaime shook his head, “I hate to say it, Sansa, but your sister has got a point.”

Sandor looked dumbfounded, “Are you two serious? You think she wants to return to that stinking fucking city?”

Jaime shrugged, “It doesn’t need to be a stinking city, a dirty city; Sansa could clean it up – return it to what it once was; drive out the thieves, rapers, and whoremasters. Ship them to Essos or execute them. Cersei has let the rats take over the city because it works to her advantage, keeps the smallfolk distracted by the immediate threat to their lives instead of rebelling against the woman on the throne, but it could be so different. It could be so much better with the right King or Queen.”

Sansa silenced them all, “Enough. We are getting too far ahead. Shireen hasn’t even agreed yet – nor have Edmure or Yara – and already you’re putting me on the throne. I may not even be alive at the end of this war. If we look too far into the future, we’ll lose focus on the enemy that will soon be at our door. And you all seem to be forgetting about Tywin Lannister. Even with Shireen, Yara, and Edmure – and I know we won’t get all three – if he commits the Lannister army to Cersei’s cause we are done. Making a claim for the throne will most definitely convince him to join the fight – and not on our side.”

“He still owes you a debt for answering his call and all you endured as a result. Perhaps you’re wrong – perhaps he’ll sit back and let the Gods determine the next Queen,” Jaime was insistent in a way Sansa rarely saw him.

“He doesn’t owe me a debt,” she mumbled.

Her three companions looked confused. Sansa sighed, “When Cersei had me as prisoner… when I spoke alone with Lord Tywin, he told me about Arya, that she was at Casterly Rock. I told him to release her to the North. I begged him and told him that if he let my sister go his debt to me would be paid.”

Comprehension dawned on Sandor’s face, “So that’s what you made him promise…”

Sansa nodded.

Arya simply looked dumbfounded, “You did that for me?”

“For the North,” Sansa clarified, even as she knew it was partly a lie, “…and for you. I didn’t want to think of him forcing you into marriage with some Southerner – or worse yet, giving you to Cersei.”

Arya was speechless, “Sansa, are you saying that if not for me, you might have Tywin Lannister’s army at your side right now?”

Sansa shook her head, “No, he'd not go against his daughter - not in a war of this magnitude. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

Arya turned away, but Sansa would not let her go down that tunnel of regret and guilt – she knew it too well. She gripped Arya by the shoulders, “You did nothing wrong, sister. I made a choice.”

Arya wouldn’t look at her and Sansa realized she was crying. Arya never cried.

“Arya, please… you have nothing to feel guilty about. You’re my sister, my blood. You’d have made the same choice if the situation were reversed.”

“No, I wouldn’t have!” Arya turned, red-faced, with tears streaming down her cheeks, “I chose Daenerys fucking Targaryen. I believed everything she said about you! I hated you! And when I learned you were fighting with Tywin Lannister, I hated you even more! I prayed you’d die in the battle so I wouldn’t have to become a kinslayer, Sansa! Because that’s what I thought to do! I had you on my list! I don’t deserve your love, your forgiveness, or your mercy. I was so fucking stupid!”

Sansa was taken aback. _My sister wanted to kill me? The sister I’d been searching for, been praying to find and bring home – she wanted to_ kill _me?_

Sansa felt her temper flare but then thought about everything Daenerys had told Arya, all the lies and stories she wove, and she sat down at the table heavily, staring at her inconsolable, self-loathing sister.

“She manipulated you, Arya. She lied to you, and she did it well because she believed those lies. She believed I was unreasonable, at minimum, and more likely mad.”

“But I shouldn’t have believed her! I shouldn’t have believed a stranger over family!”

“She wasn’t just a stranger, Arya. She was the woman freeing slaves, opposing the Lannisters who you had every reason to hate and mistrust. You didn’t know that nearly all the crimes committed against our family weren’t committed by Tywin or Tyrion or Jaime… they can all be laid at the feet of Joffrey, Cersei, and Petyr. I know what it’s like to believe something because you want to believe it. I believed Petyr Baelish had my best intentions in mind, even though every fiber of my being knew it was untrue. I wanted to believe I had at least one person in the world who wouldn’t hurt me. Even when he started hurting me, I told myself he cared about me, that he wasn’t really _trying_ to hurt me. He manipulated me into not one but two marriages, Arya, even after I knew what kind of man he was. At least once you saw how Daenerys was you left her.”

“Aye, I left her but still wanted to kill you. It never occurred to me to re-evaluate everything I’d come to believe about you,” Arya’s sobs had quieted, but she was still crying as she stared down at her own hands in her lap.

Sansa sighed, “Hate yourself, sister, I cannot stop you. But don’t expect me to share the sentiment.”

With that Sansa left, Sandor following. She’d said all she could and knew it was now up to Arya to forgive herself.

…

The next morning Sansa broke her fast alone with Shireen. No longer surrounded by men Sansa could see she was still a young girl with big dreams. Much like Sansa herself, Shireen had taken on too many burdens at a young age. Shireen asked questions about Sansa’s experiences. She wanted to know everything from how deep the snows get in the North to how it felt to ride a dragon. To the latter Sansa laughed, “I wouldn’t call it _riding_ , my lady, I was holding on for dear life, trying not to vomit.”

Shireen giggled, “Too bad, I bet it would be quite a view under different circumstances.”

“If you ever meet my brother Jon you can ask him – he rode with Daenerys and Ser Jorah north of the Wall.”

Sansa expected her to be shocked by the fact that Jon rode on a dragon – not by the identity of his traveling companion, “I’d almost forgot that you’ve met Ser Jorah!”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, “You know of the man?”

Shireen nodded, “I _know_ the man… he is among those who pledged to me after I took Dragonstone. He accompanied me on this journey to White Harbor.”

Sansa rose abruptly, “He’s here?!”

Shireen nodded again, “Yes, would you like to see him?”

“Yes, but… well I’m not sure he will want to see me; he was quite loyal to Daenerys, and I… well, killed her.” _Why do I suddenly feel ashamed of that?_

“ _Was_ loyal, yes. But when she started burning every city that refused to bend the knee, he left her company and made his way North by boat with a few dozen sellswords that had also become disenchanted with the Queen. Have you heard of the Second Sons?”

Sansa nodded, “My hand, Tyrion Lannister, lived in Braavos for a time, he told me of them when recounting the Dragon Queen’s ascent to power.”

“Ahh, the man who burned my father’s fleet with wildfire?”

Sansa began to stutter an excuse, but Shireen interrupted her, “Your grace, it was war. My own father did deplorable things that I’ve only recently learned about. Tyrion’s duty at the time was to his family and his King. If he is in your service now, I trust that he is an honorable man, just as I know your father was an honorable man. My father respected Lord Stark greatly.”

Sansa nodded, “Thank you, Shireen, you are a kind and gracious young Lady.”

“I believe you are as well, Sansa Stark. Which is why I wish to join you in the war to come. House Baratheon will not restore its once-great reputation by hiding at Dragonstone while others fight and die for a just cause.”

Sansa felt like she might cry, “My lady, I don’t know what to say…”

“Don’t say anything, you will return the favor when the time comes.”

“Of course. Shall we make this official?”

\-------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor was only mildly relieved when Sansa and Shireen came to an agreement. While they ironed out the terms of their alliance, Sandor and Jaime sat with Ser Iain and a surprise guest – Ser Jorah. The knight looked utterly ashamed of his loyalty to Daenerys, but Sandor could also tell the man hadn’t stopped loving her even after she went mad. Sandor wondered whether he would feel the same about the little bird… would he continue loving her even if she snapped and became a ruthless tyrant? He was ashamed to suspect that he would and thought back to the night not so long ago when Sansa made him promise not to leave her. She told him to kill her if she every became like Daenerys or Cersei, but to never take his love away.

Jaime reassured Ser Jorah that the man was not to blame for his Queen’s actions, and that he did the right thing once her true nature was revealed. Jorah appeared only slightly mollified.

They strategized all of that day, with plans for Shireen’s soldiers to sail north in another six weeks, or sooner if Sansa received any indication that Cersei’s attack would happen earlier than expected

On the fourth day Sandor stood behind Sansa as she saw Shireen off. They would also depart that day, all anxious to get back to Winterfell. As they rode out of White Harbor, he felt a glimmer of hope, not due to the 5,000 soldiers who’d soon join their forces, but thanks to Sansa herself. He thought back on what Jaime had told Shireen and couldn’t help but agree with the man. As irrational as it was, he couldn’t help but believe that Sansa would somehow find a way to lead her people to victory.

More hope came from a completely unexpected source as they entered the woods southeast of Castle Cerwyn on the sixth day of their return journey. The wolf and hounds had been on edge all day, eyes more alert than usual, frequently growling at no apparent cause. Sandor had them tighten their party, with Sansa and Arya riding in the middle. Arya had at least partly gotten over her sense of guilt, though Sandor could tell she was not acting herself, entirely. Where she’d normally have no problem in defying her sister, even in front of others, she was now being the epitome of a well-mannered lady. Oddly, it seemed to only annoy Sansa. Sandor agreed; he couldn’t help but recognize his fondness for the feisty, foul-mouthed little wolf, maddening as she sometimes was.

“Wolves… maybe a bear… should be scared off by the dogs,” Jaime spoke quietly to Sandor. Sandor only grunted in response. He had reached the same conclusion hours ago. If it was a group of bandits, the dogs would have alerted him.

As the day went on, Sandor became more worried. There was only another two hours of daylight, and whatever was stalking them was still out there judging by the way the dogs and Ghost frequently sniffed at the air and let out low rumbles.

He addressed Jaime, “We’ll ride through the night. No one will be able to sleep anyway, and I’m not leaving the horses tied up – might as well ring a dinner bell. We’ll stop now while we have some daylight left, eat, let the horses rest, then be on our way. We’ll be at Cerwyn in the morning – we’ll sleep there and depart the following morning at dawn, so we’ll have all of daylight for our last day of riding.” Jaime nodded, then went to inform the guards.

A few minutes later they stopped in a relatively clear area. Four guards stayed by the horses while the others cooked and ate. Ghost paced the entire time, not even interested in the dried pork Sansa tried to feed him. He kept nudging her and whining. He seemed not fearful but anxious. Sandor looked at Sansa and noticed she and the wolf were simply staring at one another. Sansa then looked at Arya, who nodded. In unison the sisters rose, drawing the attention of all their companions. They began walking in the direction the party had just come from, Ghost walking between the two women.

Sandor followed, “Where are you going?”

“We need to go back. Stay here,” Sansa said calmly.

“Like Hell, you’re not going out there alone.”

“We’re not alone,” Sansa stroked Ghost’s head.

“Aye, and he’ll do little good against a bear and worse yet against an entire pack of wolves.”

“Fine, you can come, but stay behind us. And no others.”

Sandor began to draw his sword, but Arya stopped him, “Keep it sheathed unless you’re trying to get yourself killed.”

_What the fuck do they know that I don’t?_

They were about seventy yards from the rest of the group when they told Sandor to sit down. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Not a dog,” but did as told as he sat on a fallen tree trunk.

Arya and Sansa just stood still, and Ghost eventually sat. The sisters occasionally smiled at each other. Sandor kept his head on a swivel and his hand on his pommel. After a few minutes he heard a branch break in the distance. He rose up but Sansa snapped around and ordered him with her eyes to sit back down, which he did.

_We’re going to die because you’re afraid to disobey a command from her. A woman. A woman who’s sucked your cock. You’re a fucking nance._

As he was cursing his cowardice, he saw a shape emerge in the distance. It blended in with the winter foliage until it got much closer, and that’s when Sandor saw what it was.

_A wolf! No – a direwolf!_

“Nymeria,” Arya whispered reverently. The wolf’s ears perked up at that word while her golden eyes darted between Arya, Sansa, Ghost, and Sandor.

Sandor sat like a statue, amazed that the direwolf separated from Arya years ago, and when it was still a pup, seemed to remember the girl. He was so focused on Nymeria that he almost didn’t notice the half dozen wolves that appeared out of the woods like apparitions. As if sensing his fear Sansa spoke to him in the calm, authoritative voice she used with the hounds, “Still, Sandor.”

Arya dropped slowly to one knee which made her shorter than the direwolf. Ghost approached slowly, and the beasts engaged in a stare down, with Ghost ultimately relenting by dropping his head – an animal’s version of bowing.

“You remember me, girl?” Arya whispered, raising her arm slowly but keeping her hand limp and unthreatening. After what felt like an eternity the direwolf closed the gap and sniffed at Arya’s hand. The sight of the beast towering over the petite girl called up every one of Sandor’s protective instincts but he resisted. He knew that making a quick movement would be more dangerous than remaining still.

Only Sansa was still standing, and Nymeria, who came up to Sansa’s ribs, looked to her now. Her golden eyes studied the woman before her. Echoing her sister’s words but in a more commanding voice Sansa spoke, “You remember me, girl?” She made no move to kneel or to extend her arm, but Nymeria sniffed at the air in her direction.

Sansa looked at the wolves around them, now more than a dozen in all shades of gray and tan, blending in seamlessly with the winter woods, only visible when they chose to be seen.

“Queen of the Wolves,” Sansa said.

Arya turned to her sister, “Aye… like you.”

Sansa neither agreed nor disagreed, just continued to look wistfully at the wolves around them, “She can't come back, Arya, she won't be a pet again.”

Arya nodded, “She knows I’m home now. She will come if I need her.”

Sansa left Arya to say goodbye to the wolf, Ghost instinctively falling in line behind her. She didn’t need to look up at Sandor as she walked past for him to know she was crying.


	108. Secret Admirer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help is offered from an unlikely admirer.

**Sansa**

Even with the Knights of the Vale and Shireen Baratheon behind her, and every northern House united, Sansa knew their numbers were insufficient. There was a total of 35,000 knights and soldiers at her disposal, plus another 40,000 men and women of age and fitness to fight, who were currently being trained throughout the North.

As for her opponent, Cersei had about 200,000 trained soldiers, including Euron Greyjoy’s Ironborn. Should Tywin Lannister lend his army she’d have another 45,000, plus that would likely bring the Riverlands army – 8,000. Sansa knew Tywin did not want to attack her, but if Cersei forced him to choose a side, he would choose the winning side, of that Sansa was sure. Moreover, he would not become a traitor to his own Queen and daughter. The Lannisters were known to value family above all else, as evidenced by Tywin’s support of his grandson Joffrey Baratheon even as the boy King proved to be as mad as King Aerys II – who Tywin himself had helped to overthrow.

_75,000 versus at least 200,000_. During winter it would be achievable, but the snowfalls were already becoming less frequent and less severe. In truth, they would not even be terrible odds in Spring if it weren’t for the Ironborn fleet, which could sack the harbors that Winterfell still relied on for food. It also meant the entire force would not be coming through the death trap that was Moat Cailin. Jaime estimated that of the 200,000, about half would come by ship. Fully manned, the towers of the Moat could rain down enough arrows to cut the 100,000 traveling by foot in half. But only four of the seven towers had been fully restored. At best, they could reduce the enemy’s ground force by a third.

So 75,000 versus 170,000, assuming Tywin Lannister _doesn’t_ join his daughter. The Northern army would be forced to meet Cersei’s army head-to-head, in the fields, and they would lose.

Sansa considered sending letters to Dorne and Highgarden, but their numbers had been so decimated by Daenerys that they’d be of little help even if they decided to help the Queen in the North – which they would have no reason to.

What Sansa truly needed was an ally with not just strong numbers, but a strong fleet that could defend White Harbor. Lord Manderly’s merchant fleet, even if fortified, would be all but useless against the Ironborn warships. Bear Island had a handful of warships and ferry boats, equally useless. Sansa had sent a plea to Theon’s sister Yara who had retaken the Iron Islands once her Uncle Euron sailed to King’s Landing to kneel to Cersei. Her reply was sympathetic but unhelpful: she would not put her fleet up against Euron’s, having only one-third of his ships. She had barely enough to defend the Iron Islands from him, should he try to reclaim them, and she intended to not step foot off her homeland for the rest of her days – certainly not to support a ‘lost cause’ as she’d put it.

_I should have thrown my dagger at Cersei’s neck instead of Gregor’s. I’d be dead, but perhaps whoever claimed the throne would leave the North in peace._

\-------------------------------------------------------------

**Sandor**

He found the little bird completely despondent in the map room staring down at a scattering of parchments. He knew she was driving herself mad with worry but was also pleasantly surprised at how well she could grasp the strategies of battle and siege, at least the broad strokes.

Offering the only comfort he could he bent down to plant a kiss on her neck, in the sensitive place he knew even in her worst moods she could not resist. But there was a first for everything and today she pushed him away.

“It can’t be that bad,” he whispered in her ear, unwilling to relent so easily.

She stood and moved away from him, keeping her back turned. He was insulted by her rejection, though knew it was not personal.

“Care to talk?”

“No. No amount of talking, or thinking, or staring at bloody maps is going to get us what we need.”

“And what, precisely, do we need?”

He knew the answer was “men” but didn’t know the exact number. He spent every waking hour training the smallfolk who poured in daily. It was tedious and often frustrating, and at night he collapsed in bed and fell asleep as Sansa did the same. Some nights he found her asleep in her chair, drooling onto some map or parchment. Some of those nights he’d wake her and find ink on her cheek that he never told her about – it was one of the few amusing parts of his day. Other times he would pick her up and carry her to bed. They hadn’t coupled in over a sennight, he not having the physical energy and she never being able to shut down her worrying mind. Even in sleep she was restless: tossing and turning, twitching, and sometimes even talking. One night he woke to what he thought was her asking him a question. It took several attempts at making her repeat herself before his sleepy brain realized she was muttering gibberish while sound asleep.

These were the roles they assumed, without ever agreeing to them. She bore all the mental woes and did not burden him with her fears. He toiled physically all day and did not burden her with his problems. He didn’t tell her what little progress the new recruits were making, and she didn’t tell him that they would all starve if sieged for longer than two moons.

She was strategy, and he was tactic. Only looking at her now he knew he had the more enviable position. He could see progress being made, even if it was little. He could always be _productive_ teaching some young lad or lass how to fire a bow or swing a sword. But she had to try to think up solutions that didn’t exist – that no amount of mental energy or intelligence could will into existence, because you can’t create something out of thin air.

“A miracle,” she finally sighed, as he had almost forgotten his question.

“And what would the miracle look like?”

“Ideally? 80,000 soldiers and a hundred warships, though I’d kiss the Stranger himself for half of either.”

“Yara?”

“Politely declined, though wished us good luck in our _lost cause_ , sweet thing that she is.”

“Your uncle?”

“No response.”

“Dorne? Highgarden?”

“You mean what _used_ to be Dorne and Highgarden? Wouldn’t even add a drop to the bucket, assuming I could offer them good reason to make an enemy of the Crown – again – which I can’t.”

She turned around and continued, “So far the best idea I have is for all of us to flee to the far north; Tormund’s people can teach us how to survive there, we’ll be protected from summer armies in the Lands of Always Winter, not to mention the mountainous terrain. Hells, we can repair the wall at Eastwatch, and for a change it will serve to keep the southerners out, not the other way around.”

“Mmm, not the worst idea, though ‘Always Winter’ doesn’t sound nearly as good as ‘Always Summer’ – can I get you to reconsider our little house in Pentos, the one with the porch and the lemon tree?”

She smiled despite herself.

_Mission accomplished._

“Never have I been closer to agreeing,” she sighed.

“Ahh, then let me tempt you with a small sample of what it will be like to be the wife of Samuel Cain, famed sellsword of the Free Cities.” He moved in to kiss her, but his lips were met by her giggles.

“ _Samuel Cain_? You’ve already named your alias?”

“Yes I have, Sasha Rivers.”

She smacked his chest, “You’d make me a Riverlands bastard! And where did you get the name Sasha, dare I ask?” she lifted an eyebrow suspiciously.

He shrugged, “No one in particular, if that’s what you’re worried over. Just always thought the name was rather pretty.”

“And, _conveniently_ , it sounds rather close to Sansa.”

He tapped his temple, “Your sellsword husband is a clever man: when you inadvertently start to call me ‘Sandor’, it’s easy enough to change mid-word to ‘Samuel’ – same for your name.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this… but so far I haven’t heard the part of your plan where I have to crop and dye this fiery mane you love to run your fingers through.”

He shrugged and pressed his lips against hers, “No matter, I’ve always fancied blonds.”

This time her smack was painful to his arm, “Ow! Is that any way to treat the man who’s going to buy you a house and plant your bloody lemon tree?”

She continued smacking him until he grasped both her wrists and held them behind her back, shackled in only one of his large hands.

She looked up at him deviously, “I recall being offered some kind of sample; I hope this rough treatment isn’t what you had in mind…”

_Gods she is beautiful when she’s teasing me._

He backed her into the table while kissing her cherry lips. He pressed his want against her belly, “See what you do to a man, Sasha?”

“And what will a man do about it?”

In one fluid motion he spun her around, still holding her wrists behind her back. He unlaced his breeches and watched his cock spring out. Lifting her skirts he was about to plunge himself into her when he thought better of it.

_Been too long, I’ll hardly last a minute._

With her bent over the table he could see her glistening cunt, and knew she was ready for his intrusion. But he was going to make this last, for both their sakes.

He dropped to his knees and she jerked upon feeling not his cock but his tongue probing her sensitive flesh. He licked and sucked at her swollen nub, no need to ease into this, she was more than ready. She was panting within seconds. He lapped at her like the dog he was, her scent making him ravenous. He imagined some men only performed this act on a woman fresh out of the bath, but he would take her natural scent over the aroma of flowery soaps any day. One whiff and his cock throbbed painfully. He buried his tongue in her tight hole, only further aroused by his nose rubbing against her _other,_ even tighter hole, the one he greedily wanted to conquer someday.

He returned his lips to her nub, sucking furiously while moving his head back and forth to double the friction. She was moaning for true now, crying out his name, crying to the Gods, begging him for what he was already giving.

She came hard seconds after he buried a finger inside her to match the motion of his tongue. As she came down from her high, he rubbed the back of her thighs, which were trembling from the effort of keeping herself upright, even with the table supporting her upper body. He gave her a few seconds to recover before pulling her down onto him where he was still kneeling. With one hand around her chest and one braced against the heavy table he thrust up into her as he held her body pressed tightly against his chest. Still riding her first climax she easily found another, digging her nails into the strong arm that was supporting both of them. Her twitching channel was all it took to drag him with her, and he grunted his release into the back of her hair, hair he’d die before seeing cropped short.

They sat like this for several minutes and would gladly stay longer if it weren’t that the hard floor was bringing pins and needles to his feet. He rose shakily and helped her do the same before planting another kiss on her lips.

“If that was a sample, I’m almost afraid of what a full serving would be,” she teased.

He chuckled, wiping stray hairs from her sweaty forehead, “I suppose I should get back to my duties, sweet Sasha.”

She smiled but looked at him curiously, “You neglected your duties for that? Here I thought you had important news to report.”

“Oh!” He’d forgotten the scroll in his pocket, “I intercepted Maester Damon on his way to deliver this to you, though truthfully I was looking for an excuse,” he handed her the sealed scroll. “There’s no marking in the wax, better not be a secret admirer,” he raised his good eyebrow in mock suspicion.

He watched her pour over the words, brow knitted. She turned the scroll over as if looking for some additional message, then read it again. She looked up at him, “Well, it is most definitely a _secret_.”

\---------------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

Tyrion read the scroll twice and handed it back to Sansa before answering her question, “Do I think it is trickery? _No_.”

Clegane scowled, “Smells like a trap.”

“From anyone else I would agree with you.”

“Hmpf, but not from your father?”

“No, not from our father,” he looked to Jaime, who nodded his agreement, albeit with less conviction.

“Sansa, you came to my father’s aid when you were hardly in the position to do so. I’ve told you once before, my father does not repay loyalty with treachery.”

“But he doesn’t need to repay my loyalty, and even if he does feel some obligation, he would be foolish to show it at this time, in this way, when he could simply let Cersei wipe us out; the obligation would disappear with the North. Your father is practical before anything else.”

“I agree, which means he sees some benefit in joining with you now,” Tyrion stated assuredly.

“Meaning he wants something from the North?” Sansa asked skeptically.

Tyrion nodded, “That would be my guess.”

Clegane snorted, “Isn’t he above begging from the poor? What could he possibly want badly enough from _us_ to pit himself against his own daughter, his queen… and her massive armies?”

Tyrion shrugged, “There is only one way to find out…”

“Yes, to set Sansa up for an ambush. Even if you trust your father, how do we know this even came from him? Cersei could have written it to bait Sansa.”

Jaime spoke now, “That is most definitely my father’s handwriting, and as you can plainly see it was written with a cool and steady hand. I don’t believe he was coerced into sending this.”

“I still say it smells of a trap,” Clegane crossed his arms.

“I’m telling you: my father wrote this letter, and my father would not lay a trap for Sansa after she literally saved his home and his life. I could see him remaining neutral in our conflict, but I _cannot_ see him acting against her, and certainly not in such a deceitful and cowardly way.”

“You realize we’re talking about the man behind the Red Wedding, don’t you?” Clegane spoke as if Tyrion was a simpleton.

Tyrion ignored the insulting tone, “ _Allegedly_ , but he was in open war against Robb Stark; he is not in war against Sansa… In fact, they have something of a truce in place. It may not be an iron-clad pact, but my father is a man of his word.”

Clegane looked slightly pacified.

“Please, let me see the letter again, my lady.”

Sansa handed the scroll back to Tyrion.

> _W,_
> 
> _How joyous that Spring will soon be upon us, though I know it will mean much labor for your people. I wish you luck in tilling the fields and harvesting the seas. Should you find the effort requires more resources than you have at your disposal, I may be able to lend some farm hands and fishing boats. The Gods have blessed me with an abundance of the former, and a respectable number of the latter._
> 
> _Should you wish to take me up on my offer, let’s meet in person; it would bring me joy to look upon the face of an old friend once more. Simply reply with a place and date and I shall be there. Until then, you are in my prayers._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _L_

Tyrion laughed despite himself.

“What’s so damned funny, Imp?” Clegane spat.

“I just never thought I’d see the words ‘joyous’, ‘friend’, and ‘prayers’ in my father’s handwriting.”

Jaime shared his brother’s amusement. Sansa looked pensive before retrieving a piece of parchment and her quill. She leaned over the table and began writing her response, not caring that everyone had gathered around to watch over her shoulder.

> _L,_
> 
> _Your correspondence was unexpected though most welcome and certainly timely, as we are indeed preparing for the Spring. I pray the seeds we sow will yield a rich harvest for many years to come!_
> 
> _Your concern is appreciated. I am confident in our capabilities but am not too proud to accept help if it will ease the burden on our laborers – especially when offered from such a dear friend. If nothing else, it will be wonderful to see you again and catch up on all that has transpired since we last parted company._
> 
> _As it happens, I will be at M.C. on the 28 th of July to visit another old friend. I’d be honored if you would join us. Perhaps a small feast is in order to celebrate the end of Winter. You bring the wine; I’ll supply the food?_
> 
> _I look forward to seeing you soon; until then you, too, are in my prayers._
> 
> _With fondness,_
> 
> _W._

Tyrion laughed, “A bit much, don’t you think?”

She smirked, “When will I ever get another chance?” 

Clegane looked uncertain, “Little bird, are you sure about this?”

Sansa smiled, “I have two words for you: _Dornish Sour._ ”

The tall man could not keep the corners of his mouth from curving up, “Fuck it, at least I’ll die drunk.”


	109. Strange Bedfellows

**Tywin**

It had been years since he’d seen the Moat in person, but he last knew it to be little more than rubble. He’d always wondered why the Starks had let Moat Cailin fall to ruin; for thousands of years it had been one of the North’s greatest assets, a chokepoint that effectively prevented southern armies from traveling the causeway to invade the North. Of course, he didn’t voice his opinion to Ned Stark – Tywin never trusted a man who placed honor before family.

_But isn’t that what you’re doing now?_

He wouldn’t worry about that now; this was an extreme exception – Tywin had no regrets where family was concerned, he’d done more than his duty to them, and all it ever earned him was disappointment and a damaged legacy.

Looking upon the Moat now proved what he already knew: Sansa Stark had, at minimum, more sense than her father and many of her other ancestors. Half of the Moat’s towers had been recently restored, as evidenced by the fresh stone and mortar that sharply contrasted against the time-worn and moss-covered rock at the foundations. Sections of wall had also been rebuilt sometime recently, and the Keep itself seemed completely new – the look and smell of fresh wood was obvious even from a distance. That restoring the Moat was a top priority after being named Queen in the North illustrated her sound judgment and appreciation that the best offense is a good defense, something Tywin’s own Casterly Rock had proven many times over thousands of years.

Indeed, the young Queen had proven herself wise and cunning, though her apparent recklessness was troubling, and must be addressed if they were to become allies and partners.

A group of guards stood at the long stone walkway that led to the Moat. Sansa herself was not present, but Tywin’s son Tyrion was there to greet him, “Father, it is good to see you again.”

“Tyrion,” he tipped his head but offered no words of warmth – they would only be lies.

“The soldiers who’ve accompanied you may set camp here. Queen Sansa asks that only you and your personal guards proceed to the Keep… you may retain your weapons, however.

_How generous, when our swords are all but useless against the Moat’s archers…_

With a jerk of his chin Tywin signaled to his Commander, who turned to address the soldiers. Tywin and four guards donning gold armor and crimson cloaks followed Tyrion and a group of six Stark guards, whose armor and cloaks reeked of the North – all utility with no aesthetic. _As practical as her ancestors, I see._ Tywin looked up as they approached the Keep and, as expected, every window of every standing tower held an archer.

_Smart girl indeed; she chose a very advantageous meeting place._

Tywin might have been uneasy if Sansa had anything to gain by killing him. At best, she could take him hostage and hope Cersei would call off her attack in exchange for her father’s life. Tywin was certain she would not and was only slightly less certain that Sansa would assume as much.

His party was led directly to what appeared to be the Lord’s solar, though the Lord himself – one Derik Cassel – was not present. Sansa was seated at a large table; behind her stood Sandor Clegane and Brienne of Tarth – the only two people in the realm next to whom Tywin imagined he looked almost jovial. Tyrion took the seat to Sansa’s right. Tywin looked around the room to take in his surroundings – a habit he could never break, not that he wanted to. A table to the left held a spread of cold meats, cheeses, fruits, breads, jellies, and several wine decanters.

Sansa wore a long-sleeved black gown with a fur stole, closed in the front with a silver direwolf pin. She wore no makeup or jewelry save her signature chain through a metal circle. It reminded Tywin of a maester’s chains, and he wondered if that had been her inspiration for the design. The last time he’d seen her she was weak and pale thanks to the abuses she endured in the Black Cells. Prior to that had been the days leading up to the Targaryen girl’s attack. Seeing her now Tywin could reappraise her features. Her good breeding was obvious: defined jaw and cheekbones, straight nose, bright eyes, clear skin, lustrous hair. Her mouth was small but shapely. Her features were perfectly symmetrical and balanced. He remembered the pretty girl she’d been in the Red Keep, often subject of the glares of men young and old. He’d never thought much of her then, but Tywin rarely found anyone beautiful unless he knew their mind to be of equal caliber. Seeing her today, though, and knowing the kind of Queen she was, he allowed himself the rare pleasure of enjoying her beauty, though the coldness of her gaze did nothing to make him think she sought his admiration.

“Lord Tywin, thank you for agreeing to meet at this locale; as you know, travel is still difficult north of the Moat, and I did not want to delay this meeting.”

“Nor I, my lady.”

“I recall you’re a man of efficiency, so I assumed you would wish to begin immediately, though if I was mistaken…”

“You were not, my lady, though I’d prefer we hold our discussion in a more private setting,” his eyes flicked to the guards.

“If you wish to dismiss your guards, I shall do the same, but Lord Tyrion will remain, as will Clegane.”

Tywin appraised her for a moment before nodding, “I’m flattered that at my age you still think me much of a physical threat.” With a flick of his wrist his four guards exited, followed by Sansa’s six guards and a rather insulted Brienne of Tarth.

“I appreciate your concession, Lord Tywin. I do not feel threatened, but I am also not one to take chances.”

“Says the woman who jumped to her death to kill the Night King, then nearly did the same to kill the Dragon Queen, then faced the monster that had once been Gregor Clegane in single combat.”

Her left eyebrow lifted slightly, the first sign of emotion he’d seen in her since his arrival, “You think me stupid or mad, Lord Tywin?”

“Neither, my lady. _Reckless._ ”

“If you plan to disarm me with insult, you’ll find I’m not cut down so easily as the men you’re accustomed to conversing with.”

“Clearly not, and that was not my intent. I was merely stating an observation. You have a great many fine qualities, my lady, though everyone has deficits. Yours may be your recklessness, and as I truly hope my proposed alliance will be a long-lasting one, I would also hope you learn to check your impulses.”

Clegane bristled behind her, but his lady was less easily riled, “Ahh, so not an insult, a _lecture_.”

“ _Friendly advice_ ,” he stated the words emphatically. “I thought you were someone who valued the counsel of those with more life experience than yourself, though perhaps I’ve misjudged you.”

“You have not, though it seems odd your first piece of _advice_ should be to reign in the very impulses that helped saved the realm. Twice.”

“And here I thought you were a humble Queen.”

Tyrion interjected, “Please, I do not believe either of you came here to exchange barbs, can we get to the matter at hand?”

“You are right, Lord Tyrion. I am anxious to know why Lord Tywin, Queen Cersei’s Hand and father, is meeting with her declared enemy, presumably without her knowledge.”

“The answer is quite simple. I am acting in the best interest of the realm.”

“I wish I could believe that, but every action I’ve ever known you to take or endorse has been in the best interest of your own family. Cersei is your family.”

“As are Jaime and Tyrion…”

“And Ser Kevan, and Lady Genna, and a slew of other Lannisters, all of whom are loyal to Cersei.”

“All of whom are loyal to _me;_ loyal to the Lord of Casterly Rock.”

“Who is loyal to Cersei, unless that has changed…”

“My presence here should indicate to you that it has, or rather, _will._ ”

The girl’s eyes narrowed, “It would, if I found that even remotely believable. Tell me, where was your concern for the _realm_ when your grandson was waging wars to ease his boredom?”

“I was at Casterly Rock, where I had gone to live out the rest of my days in peace while Robert reigned. I returned to King’s Landing to save my family from being killed by Stannis Baratheon. Once Joffrey’s _predilections_ became apparent, I stayed in King’s Landing out of duty to the realm, and yes, at the time, duty to my family. The boy needed guidance.”

“The boy needed discipline.”

“That also; and if you think I did not try, then _you_ are mistaken, my lady.”

“Fine. I am not here to discuss years-old grudges, though please satisfy my curiosity before we get to the more pertinent discussion – where does Cersei believe you are, right now?”

“In the Riverlands, helping Edmure Tully put down a small uprising of smallfolk demanding that Riverrun pledge itself to the Queen in the North, instead of the Queen in King’s Landing.”

“Why would my uncle need your assistance to put down a small uprising?”

“He wouldn’t. My primary objective is to retain his loyalty and make sure he isn’t being tempted to give in to his people’s demands.”

Sansa studied him for a moment, and he allowed her.

“Tell me why I should believe you wish to join forces with the North, against your own daughter?”

Tywin sighed. He was unaccustomed to explaining himself, but the girl was only asking logical questions, and he knew only the stark truth would bring her to his cause.

“Because, regrettably, my daughter is as mad as a Targaryen herself.”

Tyrion and Sansa stared at him in stunned silence, and Tywin advantage of took the opportunity, “Tell me, my lady, what was your reaction to the letter I sent informing you of King Tommen’s death?”

She did not hesitate to answer, “That Cersei was responsible. That she incinerated the Sept of Baelor to destroy the Faith Militant and the Tyrells, including Queen Margaery. That she inadvertently caused Tommen to jump to his death after grief overcame him.”

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably.

Tywin offered a single curt nod, “Then your interpretation matched mine with uncanny precision. That _event_ was not the first of Cersei’s actions that _disappointed_ me, to put it mildly. Her failure to produce at least one trueborn heir destabilized the entire realm and jeopardized the family legacy that I spent my entire life restoring and maintaining. Her failure to discipline or control her own son did the same. Her choice to spend her days drinking instead of ruling let her kingdom fall into unrest and hunger... And it certainly wouldn’t be the last of her unwise decisions. Arresting you, the woman who’d gained the respect of everyone north of this Moat and at least half the people south of it. _The savior of the realm._ The only reason Cersei’s idiocy didn’t lead to an all-out rebellion is because you somehow survived your trial. If you had died, I myself would have had my head bashed in by riotous peasants.”

The girl shook her head in disbelief, “So it is not that you wish to help the North on principle – you wish to _overthrow_ your daughter.”

Tywin nodded.

“So if I am to believe that you wish to see Cersei ousted, and I’m not entirely convinced, you have all the power to do so without me. Don’t tell me you can’t prove that Cersei is guilty of adultery and incest, not to mention murder for everyone who perished in the Sept of Baelor.”

Tywin felt his face redden, but he kept his composure, “Accusing Cersei of incest would mean condemning my own son. And as a matter of fact, I have no _proof_ of her involvement in the explosion of the Sept. Cersei has a way of keeping her hands clean. Even if I did have sufficient proof, Cersei has bought all the eyes, ears, and tongues in King’s Landing except the few I own myself. Trying her for any crime would only backfire… Look how _fair_ your own trial was.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “So you don’t want your daughter simply stripped of her crown. You want her _dead_. You think me fool enough to believe that?”

“You as well as anyone knows that a lifetime of imprisonment is worse than a swift death, especially to a lion used to having free roam of the land.”

“You are her Hand, surely you have access to do the deed yourself, that would save you and I from losing any men in this war.”

“Cersei’s paranoia is unequaled. She has surrounded herself with enough hired guards and spends most of her days in her solar. I’d be risking my own life to get to her, and even I were successful I doubt anyone would forgive Tywin Lannister for Queenslaying and Kinslaying both…” He didn’t mention the other dilemma, that he wasn’t sure he could actually go through with killing his daughter himself.

“…Furthermore, she has 200,000 men at her disposal and Euron Greyjoy would happily take up her cause. The only way to beat them is to draw out their forces and face them somewhere we have the position advantage.”

“Like Winterfell?”

“Yes. When my daughter made it known she intends to march on the North I knew this was the best opportunity to enact my plan.”

Sansa shook her head, “I’m sorry my lord, but if the basis of our negotiations is to be my belief that you want your daughter dead, and that war is necessary for that to happen, you’ve come here in vain.”

_Of course she doesn’t believe me. The Lannister code of familial loyalty is known throughout the realm._

“My lady, may I speak frankly?”

“I thought you had been,” she lifted her eyebrows mockingly, but he was undeterred.

“I stopped thinking of Cersei as my daughter a long time ago. I once loved her, yes, and still do have love for the girl she once was. Cersei was once as intelligent as my youngest son, and as brave as my eldest. You remind me of her, in that regard. It still pains me to think of how great she could have been if she’d married Prince Rhaegar instead of that drunken stag…”

“The Prince Rhaegar that raped and kidnapped my Aunt Lyanna Stark?”

Tywin studied her. _Surely she knows the truth by now…_

“Are you still believing that lie?”

The northern queen looked stunned again.

“My lady, Rhaeger didn’t rape your aunt, he loved her. He didn’t kidnap her, her married her. The lie you’ve been raised to believe was fabricated by Robert Baratheon to fool not just his kingdom but his own self. He couldn’t stand the idea of Lyanna choosing Rhaegar over him. He used that lie to justify his rebellion and to cement his alliance with the North, not that his good friend Ned Stark needed much persuading.”

Sansa opened and shut her mouth a few times like the Tully fish of her mother’s home, “How do you know this?”

“It is _documented_. Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia Martell was annulled, and his marriage to your aunt was consecrated by a Septon.”

“If this is a lie…”

“It is not, and what purpose would such a lie serve me?”

She had no answer to that, only another question, “Did my father know?”

“That I do not know, but I believe he did.”

Sansa nodded, seemingly believing his words, or at least wanting to.

Tywin continued, “I have gotten us off course… the truth is I have spent several years trying to resurrect the woman my daughter once was, but in that time I have not only failed to make any progress, I have witnessed Cersei become more and more the epitome of madness. The truth is I’ve been carefully plotting ways to remove Cersei from the throne since the day after Tommen’s death. My only reticence was that there would be no one to take her place, she would resign or die without heirs.”

“And that has not changed.”

“No, it has not. But the answer came to me, oddly enough, as a result of Cersei’s own foolishness.”

“Please elaborate, my lord.”

Tywin laced his fingers, carefully balancing the need to win over the young queen with the need to not embolden her too much, “For some time I had suspected you had all the qualities of a worthy ruler, but I became convinced the day I watched thousands of noblemen and smallfolk alike chant your name.”

Sansa turned to Tyrion and exchanged a confused look.

“Father, are you suggesting we oust Cersei and instate Sansa as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I am.”

Sansa began to laugh – quiet chuckles at first that grew into genuine belly laughs.

Tywin grew angry at her response, “You think I am japing?”

Her laughter yielded to a face so cold Tywin felt almost intimidated. Her voice dripped with contempt, “No, my lord, I think you are _stupid_. You hope to dangle the promise of the Iron Throne so that I’ll fall for whatever your scheme is, but you can’t bait a wolf with a turnip. You think I want the throne? I don’t even want to be Queen in the North… I didn’t ask to be Queen in the North, I assume the role out of duty, not desire.”

“Precisely. Has your Hand never told you that the best rulers are those who never wished to rule?”

“Oh many times, and I will continue to serve the North as its Queen as long as the North wants me. Assuming I survive this war, I intend to live out the rest of my years in peace, in my home, surrounded by what little family I have left and the friends I’ve collected along the way.”

“You’d rather see Cersei keep the throne then? You’d rather live with a dagger to your throat, knowing she can strike at any moment?”

“I’d rather be left alone!” she slammed her palm on the table, “I don’t care who sits on the ugly throne, so long as they leave the North unmolested. I seek no vengeance; I only wish for peace.”

“A peace you will never have as long as she reigns.”

“Then dispose of her yourself, find someone else to take the throne, I care not who it is!”

“You _should_ care! Who do you trust to let the North remain _unmolested_ indefinitely?”

“You want to be my ally so badly? Take the throne yourself, I’ll support you, under promise that the North’s independence will be granted in perpetuity.”

“As a matter of fact, my lady, I _intend_ on sitting the throne – by _your_ side.”

Her look of confused shock would have made any other man chuckle. Behind her Clegane stirred, his hand reflexively moving toward his sword hilt before he stopped himself.

She shook her head defiantly, “I do not want to be Lady Lannister any more than I want the cursed throne. And why would you care to share it with me _?_ You are wealthy beyond comprehension; you can take your pick of lady wives. The war has left plenty of maidens and widows.”

“None of whom would possess a fraction of the respect and support you’ve already garnered. I want the next King or Queen’s reign to be completely uncontested so he or she can focus on seeing the realm thrive, not on fighting endless, wasteful wars. The upcoming battles will drain the swamp, and I’m intent to not see it refilled anytime soon.”

“So if you’re convinced that I’m that person, why do you need to be by my side? You could have taken the throne many times in your life, I’m sure. Why now? You wish to exploit my favor while you control the realm? I will not be your figurehead.”

“It is not the throne alone I seek; it is a wife, heirs…”

She interrupted him, “Again, your wealth alone and role as Warden of the West should afford you your pick of any noble lady. And last I checked you have two male heirs.”

“One of whom is unwilling to claim his birthright, the other of whom…”

Tyrion snorted, “Don’t trouble yourself finishing that sentence, everyone knows you think me unfit to carry on your legacy, and I’d rather not care to, truth be told.”

Sansa nodded, “And _again,_ you can find any number of women to be your _broodmare_ ; I want no part of it and am surprised you would want it from me.”

“You did not let me finish,” he snapped, “It is a wife and heirs I need, yes, but so that I can secure a _dynasty_. A dynasty that will rule a prosperous, united realm for thousands of years to come.”

“So you wish to share the throne with me not for your own sake, but to plant your own heir as King?”

“Precisely, while his siblings rule the North, the Vale, and the Westerlands, and his cousins through your Tully kin rule the Riverlands. And I know of your meeting with Shireen Baratheon – we already have the Stormlands. When we eliminate Euron Greyjoy, his niece Yara would be a fool not to kneel to us…”

He could see the wheels spinning in her head but had more to say, “Do you not see that together you and I would command the instant loyalty of everyone north of the Reach? And everything below that can be established through marriage alliances with people who would still be my allies if it weren’t for Cersei’s scheming. Or better yet, by awarding those houses to loyal northerners and westerners to repopulate the areas decimated by the Dragon Queen. With Cersei out of the equation, all of Westeros would be united under a king and queen who are respected, loved, and feared. Name me two other people who can accomplish that and I’ll install them instead and live out the rest of my days at the Rock as I’d like to, instead of bothering myself with ruling an entire continent.”

She continued listening, contemplating. He continued with a sigh, “My lady, If what you truly wish for is peace and independence for the North, and now for the Vale, do you not see that the best way to ensure that is to _be_ the person to make that decision, and to birth the successors who will make that decision for generations to come?”

Finally she spoke, “And if I refuse your proposal, you would let Cersei and Euron sack Winterfell, seize the North, kill the woman you think should be Queen?”

“I do not wish to see that happen.”

“But you would allow it to happen, to force my hand?”

_Will I do that? Am I willing to let Cersei expand her influence?_

“You seem uncertain, my lord. If you truly seek what is best for the realm, and truly believe Cersei represents what is _worst_ for the realm, then you would fight with me regardless of my agreement to this plan.”

“It is not that simple, I’m afraid.”

“Why?”

“For all the reasons I just told you. I do not seek to oust Cersei only to see the realm fall into further chaos by leaving the throne open for the taking.”

“Then as I said, take it yourself, marry, have your heirs, forge your dynasty, leave me out of it.”

“The purpose of the dynasty is to unite _all_ the Kingdoms and bring an era of peace. Not _half_ the Kingdoms and a peace that is only as strong as the people’s love of _me_.”

The girl once again changed the subject, but Tywin could see in the background of her mind she was weighing his proposal carefully, “You seem confident you will survive the battles to come and live long enough after that to produce many heirs. With all due respect, my lord, you are near sixty years old…”

“I would of course have contingencies in place: should I die before siring an heir I would see you consort with a man of Lannister blood. My son Jaime, ideally, or a nephew. Of course, you could put a similar provision in place, naming your younger sister as your heir, or another lady you feel the North would follow – I hear Alysane Mormont is well-liked.”

“You did not answer my original question, is your support against Cersei and Euron dependent upon my acceptance of these terms?”

“For now, yes.”

“For now?”

“I cannot predict the future, and anyone who thinks he can is a fool.” 

Now she was grasping for straws, clearly looking for a reason to reject his proposal even though it was the only way to see her people survive the upcoming war, “You think marrying me would secure you all the Seven Kingdoms… don’t you realize what the Northmen would think of me if I married the man who orchestrated the murder of their King and Lady?”

 _I’m surprised it took her so long to bring up_ that _incident._

“I did not orchestrate it, my lady. I only condoned it.”

“Little difference; had you not condoned it the event would not have occurred. The Freys and Boltons only acted knowing they had your support – or at least your permission. You allowed Walder Frey to break guest right, a tradition that’s been honored since the dawn of civilization.”

“Did you not recently break the same tradition, with Lord Baelish – your _betrothed_?”

Her face reddened, “Petyr Baelish was convicted of numerous crimes, all punishable by death; but no, I did not break guest right. My shield did his job, killing Lord Baelish to protect me.”

“Fair enough. You may judge Walder Frey for being dishonorable, though are you naïve enough to think that dishonor should be repaid with honor? Or mercy?”

“ _Whose_ dishonor?”

“Your brother’s, of course. Frey involved himself in the war only because Robb Stark promised to take one of his daughters as his wife – as I recall, your sister was also promised to a Frey son or grandson. Walder Frey had been neutral in the war up until that point; he took on the risk under promise of a marriage alliance with the King in the North, who betrayed that promise by marrying a pretty young _cunt._ Who, I understand, he only married because he _dishonored_ her by getting her with child out of wedlock. Did you expect the Freys to maintain their loyalty to your brother?”

“The Freys didn’t just kill my brother – they killed my mother and over a hundred Stark men.”

“Stark _soldiers_. As for your mother, was she always the image of honor?”

“What did my mother ever do to dishonor herself or her family?!” Sansa rose, her hackles finally up.

Tywin rose to meet her gaze but did not move closer for fear of being struck down by her giant protector, “She kidnapped my son Tyrion based on the flimsy accusation of a known liar and manipulator, Petyr Baelish… she went against her own son and King’s command by freeing my other son – giving away the only trade piece that had prevented me from wiping out your brother’s entire army up to that point. And in case you were not aware, she is the one who negotiated the alliance with Walder Frey in the first place – Frey was within his rights to hold her as responsible as her son!”

The girl was angry but to her credit did not let it cloud her thinking, “Very well. But if I choose to forgive the _Freys_ and somehow convince my bannermen to do the same, that does not excuse your involvement!”

“My involvement was letting it happen, as I told you; I was not the mastermind. And even if I had been, I would feel no shame for it! Killing two Starks and a hundred soldiers to end a war that would have dragged on for _years_ … how many more Northmen would have died? Thousands? Tens of thousands? Your brother was not going to win the war! Any chance he had of compromise or advantageous surrender left when your mother released Jaime! Your precious North would be in Cersei’s hands today, and I assure you – she’d not be so easy to oust from Winterfell as the Boltons were. Littlefinger would have traded you to Cersei and you’d have been executed for Joffrey’s murder back before you had the people’s love to protect you from her wrath.”

He was irate; he had lost his temper. He could not remember the last time someone got under his skin, yet that was exactly what this little she-wolf was doing.

_Why do you care so much what she thinks of you?_

Surprisingly, though, he seemed to have made his point, as she had no response for several minutes. She took deep sips of wine as he did the same, eyes never leaving one another, always studying, always probing… searching for chinks in the armor.

He straightened his doublet, “I apologize for my harsh tone, my lady.”

“No apology needed, my lord. I prefer harsh truths to pretty lies.”

Tywin’s eyes flicked to the Hound, “It would seem so.” The tall man met his eyes quizzically. “So you see the truth in my words, then?”

“I do, though convincing my people the same would not be an easy task.”

“You are assuming your people bear the same animosity toward me as you do. Have they not accepted Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion?”

“They have.”

“And would they truly fault you for making an alliance that would tip the scales in your favor? Are they unaware that currently you are outnumbered three-to-one by Cersei and Euron?”

“They would not; and yes, they are.”

“Then it is perhaps not your people’s judgment you fear, but your own.”

The shade of red her cheeks and neck turned would have been laughable if it weren’t so endearing.

_Lannister red._

But, again to her credit, she did not deny the truth of his words, “Perhaps it is.”

“Then how can I reassure you that you would not be betraying yourself by agreeing to my proposal?”

“It is not just myself I’d be betraying.”

_Who then?_

Tywin again flicked his eyes to the Hound whose eyes looked uncharacteristically frightened, “Ahh, I see… So it is true then?”

Sansa shrugged, “I’ve done little to hide it, as I do not feel I should need to. If it weren’t for my lack of respect in the institution of marriage, Sandor Clegane would be my husband.”

Tywin sighed and laced his fingers together.

_So she may be willing to marry, but not if it means giving up her lover._

“What I’ve proposed is a marriage of political motives. I’d never have expected to have your love.”

“I had not assumed you would, but you would undoubtedly deny me mine.”

He sighed again, “As you kindly pointed out a few minutes ago, I am no longer a young man. Though I am quite confident in my _potency_ , that does not mean I have the same appetites as a younger man… Though it would not be my preference, this is a negotiation, and I am willing to concede on this point. Should you wish to keep another’s company, _discreetly_ , and without compromising the paternity of our heirs, I would permit it.”

She studied him, looking for deception, but would find none, he was certain.

“And if you are being _over_ -confident in your vigor, my lord? It would seem your entire plan to plant our offspring in every corner of the realm could easily fall apart.”

His ire rose again. “If you are daring to ask permission to let the Hound sire our heirs, you are treading dangerously close to the edge of a cliff, girl! Our heirs will have Stark and Lannister blood, one way or another. At risk of sounding crude, if anything comes out of you that isn’t red or blond of hair, I’ll drown it in the ocean.”

“That is was not what I was asking! I was only pointing out the strong possibility that your plan could fall apart, despite our _best efforts._ And to your second point, you seem to forget that I am descended of the First Men. Sandor Clegane looks more Stark than I do! You’d throw your own heir into the ocean out of paranoia!”

“You may have been sired by a Stark, but you inherited only Tully features. Ask every maester in the realm if it is possible for a woman of red hair and a man of blond hair to produce a dark-haired child. You will get the same answer from all of them.”

Tyrion rubbed his eyes, “It seems that we have become focused on minutiae – and of a rather delicate subject I might add – when the broader terms of this alliance have not even been agreed to. My lady, should I interpret the fact that you’re still in this room as a tentative agreement with Lord Tywin?”

“Tentative agreement? No. Willingness to continue discussions? Yes.”

Tyrion sighed in blatant relief, “Very well. I assume you will each want some time to think over what has been discussed, and reconvene, say, tomorrow morning to continue?”

Tywin nodded, “That would be agreeable.”

“For me, as well, though I would ask Lord Tywin one question before we adjourn…”

“Proceed, my lady.”

“As you envision this _arrangement ­_ – would you be marrying the Queen, or would I be marrying the King?”

_Clever girl._

“I’d prefer we claim the throne together, with equal status, but – assuming enough provisions are in place to protect my claim and that of our heirs – I would not be opposed to you being the Queen Regnant. Though I insist we break tradition, I will be King, not Consort. You may have first reign, but I, too, will reign.”


	110. Chapter 110

**Sandor**

A steward led Tywin Lannister to his guest chambers, leaving Sandor, Tyrion, and Sansa alone.

_Don’t yell, it will only make things worse._

“Sansa, listen to me, I know that anything I say on this matter will sound biased, but I assure you what I need to say has nothing to do with your and my… situation.”

“Noted. What do you wish to say?”

“What the _fuck_ , Sansa?!”

“That was insightful, Clegane, care to elaborate?”

“Shut it, Imp… Sansa – I mean really, what the fuck!? Tywin _fucking_ Lannister?”

“How did you know my father’s middle name?” Tyrion feigned surprise.

Sansa scolded Tyrion with her eyes, “Tyrion, please leave us for a few minutes, and if you would, fetch Ser Jaime, I will have some questions for him.”

_Deep breaths, calm yourself Dog…_

“Little bird, are you seriously considering this?”

“I am.”

“Why?!”

“Because it is the only way to keep the North from being obliterated come Spring.”

“We’ve faced worse and prevailed.”

Sansa scoffed, “There were half as many of the dead… The dead didn’t have a fleet of warships. They didn’t carry castle-forged steel. And ultimately it was _one_ man that needed to be killed. To defeat Cersei we’ll need to kill at _minimum_ 150,000 trained, well-armed soldiers just to get a surrender – assuming our numbers aren’t proportionately decimated in doing so.”

“We always get lucky; we always find a way.”

“And I’ve pushed my luck more times than anyone should be allowed to; luck does not last forever,”

“It wasn’t just luck, Sansa. It was determination, planning, training, strong arms, sharp steel.”

“And this time it will be sharp steel wielded by men, women, and even children who never held a sword until a few months ago, fighting men who make a living killing!” She sighed, “I’d be a bad queen if I didn’t consider the option that is in my people’s best interest to be victorious in the upcoming war. Further, Lord Tywin is right: even if we are miraculously triumphant against Cersei, she will never stop coming after us. And even if we manage to remove her from the throne, who would take her place? You and I both know that the only people who _aspire_ to wear the crown are mad, almost by definition.”

“But is that not what you’re doing now? What Tywin Lannister is doing?”

“You know I’ve never wanted a crown! And Tywin Lannister, for all his faults, has never seemed to want it, based on the fact that he’s had plenty of opportunity to take it.”

“You don’t want the crown, yet you’d wear it?”

“For the North, yes.”

“Fuck the North!”

“Sandor! How can—”

He rubbed his eyes, “I don’t mean that, I only mean… well, yes I mean that! You don’t owe them anything, little bird! What more can you give? You’ve given your life then _almost_ given it two more times. If your people don’t see that you’ve already sacrificed enough – if they’d stand by and watch you sacrifice your happiness too, then they don’t deserve you!”

“How would I be sacrificing my happiness? I’d have you; you _are_ my happiness.”

He threw his arms up, turning away from her, “Aye, you’d have me. The Queen’s _mistress_!”

“Sandor, you told me you never needed anything more than my love, that you didn’t care if we never married…”

“That doesn’t mean I want to see you married to someone else, a mean old cunt, at that!”

She cupped his cheek, and he resented the power she wielded through that simple touch, “Would you prefer I marry a kind and handsome young man?”

He sighed, “You’re forgetting something else, little bird. How do you plan on giving him the heirs he wants?”

“I don’t, or at least I accept it’s quite possible I won’t.”

“Then he will die of old age and you’ll be made to lay with one of his kin; his death will not free you of your duty, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Indeed, which is why I need to speak with Jaime.”

He didn’t like the sound of that but had another concern to raise, “Alright, but either way if you don’t produce any heirs your _husband’s_ closest kin would in inherit not just the Crown but also the North and the Vale – everything you’re trying to keep _out_ of Southern hands.”

“No, they would not. He said he would yield to me – as Queen Regnant _my_ heirs will inherit the crown and the North and the Vale. They needn’t be heirs born of my body. Jon and Arya’s children – my nieces and nephews – will rule the Seven Kingdoms. _Starks_ will rule the Seven Kingdoms, albeit perhaps in partnership with Lannisters, but they aren’t all Cersei and Joffrey. They aren’t all evil as I once thought.”

He had to admit it made sense, but the idea of the unknown number of years she’d have to spend letting Tywin Lannister fill her with his seed made bile rise in his throat. Sure the man was old, would likely be over sixty before any wedding took place, but he was as fit as men half his age, he could live another ten or twenty years. _Can I stand twenty years of knowing she is laying with the Old Lion?_

She seemed to be reading his mind – another of her talents that he found both annoying and endearing, “There is no guarantee he will survive the battle, Sandor. And besides, he is an old man… men of his age can fall to any number of ailments.”

_Is she suggesting…?_

A knock interrupted his thought.

“Enter.”

The Imp waddled in, “My lady, I’ve returned with my brother as you requested. Are you ready to speak with us?”

“Yes, thank you Tyrion, though I would once again ask that you leave us.”

Tyrion eyed her curiously – it was one thing for her to want a private moment with Sandor, but he clearly was suspicious of anything she would say in front of Jaime but not himself. Obediently though, he exited and shut the door behind him.

“Ser Jaime, has your brother told you anything about your father’s proposal?”

Jaime’s face turned scarlet, “Only that we might be getting a new mommy,” he couldn’t even meet Sansa’s eyes as he said it.

“Yes, I imagine Tyrion would put it _that_ way…”

Over the next hour Sansa explained the Old Lion’s proposal, only this time she played the role of Tywin Lannister, while Jaime asked all the questions she herself had recently voiced.

When he was fully briefed, he finally volunteered his opinion, “I realize it’s easy for me to say, but it sounds like a rather appealing proposition.”

_Fucking Lannister._

Sansa sighed, “I am ashamed to say I agree, though it certainly has some unfavorable aspects.”

“Like being bedded by my father?”

She scrunched her face, “Yes, that is one.”

“And being bedded by other Lannister men, potentially… oh…” his jovial face disappeared and once again he could not meet her eyes. He swallowed nervously.

“You are most astute. That is indeed one of the reasons I asked you here.”

Jaime’s eyes darted to Sandor with such fear Sansa chuckled, “Not that, Jaime. I would ask, should it come to be necessary, that you would publicly accept to the _role_ without fulfilling the _duty.”_

_Thank you, whatever Gods are listening._

“You would ask me to be named as your consort, but not actually… _consort_ with you?”

She nodded.

After a few seconds the man laughed. Sansa and Sandor exchanged a glance.

“Have I offended you by making this request, Jaime?”

“No, no… it’s not that… it’s just the irony of the situation. I spent most of my life _consorting_ with only one woman, and I certainly didn’t make public claim to her.”

“So you’re opposed to my proposal?”

“No, I think it might be rather a nice change of pace.”

She nodded, “Of course, I would not prevent you from pursuing companionship _elsewhere_ while being committed to me publicly, assuming you exercise extreme discretion.”

She was silent for a few minutes as Jaime seemed to turn the idea over in his mind, inspecting it from all angles. Eventually she cleared her throat, “Do you agree to my proposal, Ser Jaime?”

“As I’ve told you before, anything I can do in service to my queen I will do, gladly… even if that means _not_ servicing my queen.”

Jaime looked too proud of his clever play on words. Sandor had killed men for less reason than the smirk on the lion’s face. _You’re getting soft, dog._

Sensing he was on dangerously thin ice Jaime raised his arms in surrender, “Will that be all, my lady?”

“I only have one other question, Ser Jaime…” she took a deep breath, “Your father?”

He nodded, clearly understanding all the questions that were incapsulated in that phrase. Jaime exhaled loudly and seriously considered his response, “I have little love for my father. The man can be an insufferable _ass_ … but I can honestly say the only people with cause to _distrust_ him are his enemies. If you are his ally, if you are his _wife_ , he would die before dishonoring you.” Jaime headed for the door but stopped at the last moment, “And, Sansa, for what it’s worth, he was a good husband to my mother, and a good father to Cersei and me, even if he has an… _odd_ way of showing his love.”

“Thank you for your candor, Jaime.”

He bowed and exited, leaving Sandor and Sansa alone once again.

“Little bird, you are playing a dangerous game. If Tywin finds out about your condition, he can nullify your agreement and have you tried for conspiracy, among other things.”

“Indeed, he could, but that would mean turning against the _people’s queen._ He will want me alive, and by his side, at any cost. Besides, there are only four people who know of my condition. Three I trust implicitly – you, Jon, and Samwell. The fourth – Maester Damon – quite literally owes me his life. If at some point my condition becomes known to Lord Tywin, either maester would lie for me and say I did not show any signs of it prior to our marriage. More likely Tywin will only ever know that we don’t conceive, and at his age anyone would assume he is to blame _,_ not me.”

“Little bird…” He didn’t want to bring up the topic of her past, but he had to say it, “After all you’ve been through, with Littlefinger, and Ramsay… with Blount and Kettleblack…”

“You’re worried about me laying with him? He would be my husband, it would not be rape, Sandor, and I know the man at least well enough to know he is no Ramsay.”

“Even so, wouldn’t it feel like… _that…_ for you?”

She touched his cheek again, and there was wisdom and peace in her eyes, “It would feel like _nothing_. I learned long ago there are worse things for a woman to endure, as strange as that may sound to you. I’ve told you before, there is only one man in this world with the power to hurt me.”

She took his large hand in both of hers and kissed his calloused palm, “I do not wish you to think my mind is set. There is much yet to discuss, but I will go no further without your consent. You are not my husband by name, but you are the husband of my heart. If you tell me I will lose you by going through with this, if you tell me it will kill you, or kill your love for me, I will not do it. You are the only thing I am not willing to risk.”

“You would risk your Kingdom before me?”

“I would,” she didn’t even hesitate, and it made his heart feel ready to burst.

He laced his hand in her hair and pulled her forehead to his lips, thinking long before answering, “You are my queen; you are my only love… I am alive because of you – all of us are alive because of you, your decisions, your actions. This, too, is your decision, and after everything you've seen us through, I’d be a fool to doubt you… but please don’t ever ask me to like it.”


	111. Binding Agreement

**Sandor**

Sansa spent the entire next day in a closed room with Tywin, Tyrion, and Jaime. She used Jaime’s presence as an excuse for not needing Sandor to stand as her shield, but he knew the truth. She was sparing him the pain of hearing the intricate terms of her future marriage to a man who Sandor desperately wished he could hate… though the truth was he had always held a begrudging respect for Tywin Lannister. He always appreciated men who didn’t make excuses for their actions – who weren’t ashamed to admit that violence and killing often served a purpose.

Of course, he also resented Tywin Lannister for allowing Gregor to rise so high – for turning a blind eye to Gregor’s cruelty against innocents. _Set him loose on your enemies all you want,_ Sandor used to think, but when Gregor raped and slaughtered his way through village after village, it was more than Sandor could stomach, and Tywin Lannister lost some respect in his eyes, which was only partially recovered after they fought together against the Dragon Queen.

When Sandor first fled on the night of the Blackwater, he told himself it was only the fire he was fleeing. Over the subsequent years, and largely through the counsel of Elder Brother, he accepted that it wasn’t just the wildfire he had feared. He – the man who claimed to kill under orders with no regard for whether the act was justified – had become tired of serving such unworthy masters. He couldn’t spend another day around the boy king who abused the innocent little bird, the family who didn’t care that _Ser_ Gregor was raping and torturing for sport in the name of House Lannister and the Crown.

Sandor logically knew Tywin wasn’t the worst Lannister, and probably wasn’t even as cruel as Sandor had always believed, given what he now knew of Tyrion and Jaime’s character… but that didn’t make the idea of Sansa marrying him any more palatable. What was worse, he couldn’t even say precisely what worried him most – that Tywin would somehow betray Sansa? That Sansa would fall in love with Tywin and forget about Sandor? Or was it simply the idea of her laying with Tywin? He hated himself for admitting it, but he suspected it was the latter that bothered him most. He told himself that if he fucked some whore out of need for relief, perhaps because he was parted for the little bird for an extended period, it wouldn’t mean anything. He knew it to be true; yet why was the idea of her laying with the Old Lion so disturbing to him? After all, she had a truly worthy cause to do so – to save her people, which included Sandor. For all his confident words he knew their chances of victory were almost nonexistent without Tywin Lannister’s aid.

Shaking his head, Sandor did what he always did when _thinking_ brought nothing but pain; he headed to the training yard and found some young men to spar with, three on one.

…

During the second day of negotiations, Sandor hadn’t gained an ounce of peace. He was grumbling into an unsympathetic cup of ale when the Wildling woman – Val – sat down across from him in the presently empty dining hall of Moat Cailin. She had come to see for herself the North’s legendary chokepoint, designed with the explicit purpose of allowing archers to take out a significant portion of an enemy’s men from within the safety of near impenetrable stone towers. As an archer, she practically salivated when Sansa had described the place where she would meet Tywin Lannister.

Sandor rarely spoke to the woman; she was pretty but too pushy for his liking; but absent better options she apparently sought him out today, “Thought you’d look happier. If all goes well your lady will be Queen of the whole bloody realm.”

Sandor continued staring at his ale, “I’m overjoyed.”

“Alright, if not happy then proud at least. Where she was not too long ago and where she’ll soon be…”

He huffed, “Aye, I’m proud. She’ll have a throne she never wanted and marry yet another man she doesn’t love.”

Val’s teeth were now visible in a grin that was too proud by half, “Jealous?”

“I’m not fucking jealous of an old man.”

“Worried then?” she quirked an eyebrow.

“Piss off, wildling.”

“Hah! Dog, you don’t scare me. I can have an arrow in your eye before you raise that heavy sword of yours.”

“Didn’t say I’d kill ya, just told you to piss off.”

“Why? Maybe I can help you. Woman’s point of view and all…”

“What the fuck is with you people? You’re no better than the _kneelers_ … offering advice where it isn’t asked for. Go find a horse to fuck or whatever it is you savages do.”

“You offering?” she raised a brow provocatively.

He rolled his eyes, knowing her comment was meant to goad him, and not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a response.

“Seems to me you’re worried about your lady laying with another man.”

“What gave you that idea?” he grumbled.

She ignored his sarcasm, “It’s because men assume women put more into sex than you do. Tell me, did you fall in love with every whore you ever fucked?”

He didn’t respond, though she obviously knew the answer.

“You think any of those whores fell in love with _you_?”

She took his silence as permission to continue, “You kneelers got things all wrong. You teach your daughters they’re born to serve a man – with a pretty face, sweet voice, and warm womb. That her body is some sacred gift only to be given to her Lord Husband – her one true love,” Val’s acid tone made it clear what she thought of the notion.

“…And you do it not because it’s true, or because it’s best for your daughters, you do it because men are cocky things, that like to think they own their wives’ heart, mind, and body – locked up in a chest, while _you_ get to go out and have as many women as you like.”

“What the fuck is your point?” he finally asked, exasperated.

“That you’re wrong. Women think of sex just like men do. It’s a physical act, and usually nothing more. Fucking a man is just like killing him. You can do it and get no joy, like killing some faceless soldier on the other side of the battlefield. It makes you neither happy nor sad. Or you can do it and love every second of it, because you hate the man for some reason. Just like you can love every second of fucking a man, but only if there is some attraction there, even more so if there is love there.”

“I still don’t know what your fucking point is,” he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

“That you worry for nothing. She won’t lay under the lion and love it, nor will she lay under him and hate it. She’ll just fucking do it. Might like it a little, might dislike it a little… but it won’t fucking matter, because she’ll be getting all that lion’s men, all his ships, all his gold, all his power… she’ll be saving her people from imminent destruction and killing that crazy bitch who sits the throne. If you could accomplish all that by fucking some woman, you think she’d stop you? Hells, that she-wolf would probably cheer you on, then when you’re done, she’d fuck you herself to remind you who your cock really belongs to. _Now_ you see what I mean?”

He did get her point and was oddly mollified by it. He didn’t have a chance to respond, however, as the little bird’s voice called to him from the doorway.

“Clegane, will you join me in my chambers?”

He nodded and rose, an act which took more courage than it should have.

\--------------------------------------------

**Sansa**

Sansa couldn’t stop wringing her hands as she looked at Sandor. She knew he agreed to support her decision, though that didn’t mean he would like it. Despite his assurances, she feared losing his love and respect. She took a deep breath, reminding herself that they were on the brink of what was likely to be a drawn-out war, lasting weeks if not months. There were no guarantees they’d win, no guarantees they’d all survive. So many things had to go their way to even put her in a position to become Queen and marry Tywin Lannister.

She sat, taking Sandor’s hand, and tried to summon more bravery than it took to jump into a wight-filled lichyard, or onto the back of a dragon. Her heart was racing, her hands trembling.

Sandor was merciful though, “Little bird, I take it you’ve reached an agreement with the Old Lion.”

She nodded, and he nodded back.

“I’m sorry Sandor, I just don’t see another way to win, and I don’t see another way to win _and_ protect the North long-term.”

He forced a smile, “So our house with the lemon trees is still out of the question?”

She returned his smile, “I wish…” she sighed, “sometimes I wish I was someone else. Some Knight’s daughter… or a lord’s bastard… or even to still be Sansa Stark, but a version of her that wasn’t afraid to leave everything behind…”

He nodded, pursing his lips, “I know… too much honor in you Starks. I suppose I have to accept it’s part of what I love about you, even if sometimes I wished you would just be selfish… but I know you’ll never turn your back on your people.”

She smiled at him, “ _Our_ people.”

“Aye, _our_ people. But make no mistake, I’d sacrifice every single one of them for you, because I am a selfish man. So selfish that I’ll cut the Old Lion down if he ever harms a hair on your body, because you’re mine, Sansa… you’re just on loan to him – and not for his sake but for yours, because it’s the price you’re willing to pay for your Kingdom.”

Sansa smiled, gladdened that Sandor seemed to be taking this better than she’d expected, and secretly pleased by his crude and possessive words that she knew were driven by deep love.

“Sandor, there is so much that needs to happen first. This won’t be like the other battles; it won’t be over in a night or a day…”

He shook his head, “No, it won’t; but I know you’ll survive it, because you always survive. And I’ll survive it, because I survive even when I wish otherwise. And the Old Lion will survive it, because apparently he’s just as tough to kill as we are.” Sandor exhaled through his nose, “You’ll be Queen, just like you were meant to be all those years ago, just with a different King – another Lannister, though this one much older, smarter, and less cruel, I’m glad to say. And I’ll be standing there, guarding your backs, just as I was meant to do. Seems the Gods have a sense of humor after all. We’ll be back where we started, only I’ll not be so mean of a dog, and you won’t be so naïve a bird.”

Sansa rose, putting her arms around his thick neck, “You’re forgetting a very critical difference, though…”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll have the King’s permission to fuck the Queen.” 

A reluctant grin formed on Sandor’s face, “I always did want to stick it to the old bastard.”

“By _sticking it_ to his wife?”

His eyes widened, always pleasantly surprised when Sansa used crude language. He kissed her lips then, neither chastely nor hungrily, “Aye, little bird.”

\--------------------------------------------

**Tyrion**

It was the third day of negotiations, and all that was left was to review the terms one more time and make minor edits if needed. Tyrion was proud of the role he’d played in arriving at a mutually acceptable agreement between his father and his queen.

Tyrion read over the agreement one more time early the morning of the third day, before either of the two parties arrived. The contract itself was over eight pages long, but the key points were what he focused on:

  * Tywin would lend the full support of his army and fleet, including those belonging to the Riverlands, to Sansa and her allies, against the combined force of Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy
  * Though specific battle plans were yet to be devised, it was assumed Tywin and part of his army would take King’s Landing, claiming the throne from Cersei in the name of Sansa Stark and Tywin Lannister.
  * In preparing for the battles, Ser Addam Marbrand would have the right to speak and make decisions on Tywin’s behalf in his absence.
  * Sansa would be crowned Queen Regnant immediately, and within a sennight would wed Tywin and name him her King. They would reign together.
  * Sansa and Tywin would have equal say in all matters regarding the realm, though in the event of disagreement, Sansa would have ultimate decision-making authority in matters affecting the North, the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Crownlands, whereas Tywin would have ultimate authority over the Westerlands, the Reach, the Riverlands, Iron Islands, and Dorne. Both agreed that uniting all seven kingdoms and restoring the war-ravaged Dorne, Reach, and North would be a key priority of their reign.
  * Tywin agreed to install Shireen Baratheon as the ruler of the Stormlands, and Tyrion Lannister as Hand to the King and Queen.
  * In regards inheritance, each named their heirs in the event they died before producing biological children. Sansa named Jon Stark as heir to Winterfell, Arya Stark as heir to the Vale. Arya was also named as an acceptable consort, even though Sansa knew she’d never accept the role, so she named Alysane Mormont, Alys Karstark, and Wynafryd Manderly as other acceptable consorts. Tywin named Jaime Lannister as heir to Casterly Rock, with Jaime, Tyrion, and Martyn Lannister as acceptable consorts.



Upon hearing his father name acceptable consorts, Tyrion couldn’t contain his look of shock. Tywin clenched his jaw, offering no sentimentality, “You’re still a Lannister,” he stated plainly, and Tyrion thought it might be the nicest thing the man had ever said to him.

It only took a few hours to review and make final edits to the agreement, but before Sansa signed, she moved to stand directly before Tywin, unsettling him with her proximity.

“Lord Tywin, before we make this official, there are a few matters I’d like to discuss, they are of philosophical nature, and some of a personal nature. Will you humor me?”

Tywin worked his jaw but nodded solemnly.

“I will do my duty, my lord, but I’ve rather had my fill of … _overbearing_ husbands.”

Tywin bristled, “I’ve never forced myself on a woman, Lady Sansa, and I don’t intend to begin now.”

She nodded, “I also do not wish to sit the throne simply for the glory. I am doing this to bring peace to the realm. And that means peace for all. And prosperity for all. We will not measure success by the Crown’s profit alone, but by the standard of living for every man, woman, and child. This may mean bringing to justice people who prey on innocents, and—”

“Let me assure you, our ideals are aligned. Impoverished smallfolk are angry smallfolk. Angry smallfolk are rebellious smallfolk. Rebellion leads to war. War is a waste of life and gold. Any other concerns, my lady?”

She nodded again, before lowering herself to look Tywin in the eye, “I have no qualms about murdering a husband; if you get in the way of my love, it will be the last thing you do.”

Tyrion could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his father look shocked, and this was one of them. Tyrion knew Tywin had agreed to permit Sansa to continue her relationship with Clegane – which was a testament to how desperate he was to have Sansa by his side as his queen.

To his credit, Tywin recovered quickly, and never broke their eye contact, “I’m marrying a she-wolf; I’d expecting nothing less of you.”

Sansa offered a grin, something Tyrion rarely saw except when she was in the company of her “pack”. She drew her dagger, “Of course, we won’t put these conditions on paper; and while your sons tell me you’re a man of your word, I think this calls for something a bit more binding. She drew the blade down her left palm before handing it to Tywin. He stared at the dagger, no doubt thinking he was about to enter into alliance and marriage with a barbarian. Again to his credit, he mimicked her motion and cut his own hand, before shaking hers.

“There’s only one other man with whom I’ve made such a blood pact. He has never betrayed me. I trust I’ll be able to say the same about you.”

Without another moment’s hesitation she signed the agreement and left.

Tyrion turned to his father, who was staring at the door his _Queen_ had just exited. He chuckled, “Yes, that was a threat. No, I wouldn’t take it lightly... Congratulations on your betrothal, father.” Tyrion slapped him on the back, “Welcome to the pack.”


	112. What's Going On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How various characters are preparing for the war to come.

**Sansa**

Winterfell was a frenzy of activity once Sansa’s party returned there. From dawn to dusk men and women trained in the yard, builders worked on fortifications and weaponry, and the smiths put out swords, arrows, and shields. It was like the weeks leading up to the Long Night all over again.

_Will this be the last time we must do this? Please Gods, let it be the last for a very long time…_

While blood and sweat poured in buckets outside, behind the castle walls Sansa, Ser Jaime, Ser Addam, Tormund, and the other Northern bannermen met to discuss the battle plans. Ser Addam’s presence was unknown to anyone beyond this room except those Sansa trusted implicitly – Sandor, Tyrion, Brienne, Val, Jon, and Arya. To everyone else including the soldiers and servants, there was no alliance between Sansa and Tywin Lannister. Their alliance had to remain a secret for as long as possible – hopefully up until Cersei marched on the North. The element of surprise was now the greatest thing in the North’s favor, as even with their new allies they were still outnumbered by the South in both men and warships.

As Jaime and Addam debated strategy, Sansa’s mind wandered back to her arrival in Winterfell after returning from Moat Cailin…

_She took her bannermrn and siblings behind closed doors to tell them of the alliance she had forged with Tywin Lannister. Her hands were shaking, her tongue was dry, her voice shaky. There was stunned silence and Sansa awaited the scathing remarks – that she was a traitor, that she was betraying the memory of her dead family members, that she was a hypocrite for all the times she said she wanted nothing more than to serve the North. Sansa’s eyes were uncharacteristically downcast as the silence dragged on for an eternity. The squeak of wooden chair legs against the stone floor captured Sansa’s attention and she saw it was Lord Glover who had stood up, a goblet raised in his hand, “It’s about time the Seven Kingdoms has a worthy ruler.”_

_All the other faces then morphed into either joy or relief, though a few cast Sandor sympathetic looks. They began congratulating Sansa on her successful negotiations with the fierce patriarch of House Lannister. Only two people did not share in the merriment. Jon looked at Sansa with a sad smile while Arya’s eyes shone with fury – a fury she seemed to be fighting to contain but self-restraint was not one of Arya’s strengths. “Tywin Lannister?”, she murmured through gritted teeth. Everyone fell silent again._

“Tywin… Lannister…?” _Arya spoke again, more loudly._

_Sansa knew she wasn’t referring to the alliance; she was referring to the marriage, “Arya, there was no other way. The only terms he would not yield were that I would be Queen and he would be King,” though she spoke confidently, she felt just as sick about the choice she had to make as Arya clearly did._

_Arya didn’t listen, and unleashed all her fury on her sister, “You’re going to marry Tywin Lannister? You’re going to fuck Tywin Lannister? You’re going to live in King’s Landing with Tywin fucking Lannister as your fucking husband?” Her crude words made some of those present wince, but Arya had never cared about manners or decorum before, and she certainly didn’t now._

_“If we both survive what is to come, yes,” Sansa said with as much authority as she could muster._

_“I can’t fucking believe you!” Arya turned to Sandor, “You’re alright with this?”_

_Sansa was about to speak up, to do something to draw the attention off of Sandor, when he took a step toward Arya and spoke loud and clear, “I hope you never have to make the decisions your sister has had to make. I hope you get to spend the rest of your days prancing around with your little fucking sword without a care in the world; and thanks to your sister, that will probably be the case. You realize how hopeless our chances would be without Lannister on our side, hmm? You think your sister wants to marry him? Marry at all? She’s doing it for us – for all of us – and that includes you. Yet another selfless act by our Queen in the North, while you hold onto your childish grudges…”_

_Arya looked like she was about to argue but Sandor held up a large hand and continued, “We were at war, Arya – a war Tywin Lannister didn’t start. Now we’re at war again – another war he didn’t start. You don’t want to like him? Fine; his own sons don’t even like him. But if I ever again hear you give your sister – your Queen – any grief over her doing what needs to be done to protect her people then you better hope that damned wolf of yours makes an appearance because there won’t be a man in all of Westeros that will be able to pull me off of you.”_

Despite the tension in that moment Sansa looked back at it now with a smile on her face. The rest of the day was so chaotic she never properly thanked Sandor for standing up for her.

Sansa jumped out of her chair and headed for the door, ignoring Jaime and the others calling after her. She made her way out of the keep and across the courtyard. She heard Sandor before she saw him, his raspy voice cursing at the men and boys he was training.

She strode right up to him in the yard and he turned, looking surprised by her presence, “My lady, wha—”

Her lips captured the rest of his words. She kissed him quite improperly and ignored the hoots from some of the men.

When she released him, he looked stunned. She knew no words would mean more to him than her kiss, so without further ado she headed back to the keep. He must have regained his senses as she heard him growl, “Never seen a kiss before you bunch of limpdicks? Get back to work!”

Sansa grinned from ear to ear.

* * *

**  
Tywin**

Tywin departed Moat Cailin and headed straight to Riverrun to begin preparations. He met there with Edmure Tully, Ser Bryan Telford from the Vale, and a few select, trusted commanders. Tywin found it easy to respect Ser Bryan. He was smart, a strategic thinker, and clearly loyal to Lady Sansa. The first night at Riverrun, Ser Bryan recounted the night of Petyr Baelish’s death, and Tywin had to fight a proud grin when imagining the young Queen taking on someone as weaselly as Littlefinger and winning, all while gaining the powerful Knights of the Vale to her cause.

Edmure, on the other hand, was, as always, a bit of a fool; but he knew battle well enough, and it was clear that he was loyal to Tywin over Cersei. Tywin’s reputation for ruthlessness was still well intact, he was happy to know.

As Winterfell was the base of operations for all the forces north of Moat Cailin, Riverrun would be the base of operations for those south of the Moat – that meant the Vale, Riverlands, and Westerlands armies. Tywin would soon need to return to the Capital to keep up appearances, but he had a few valuable days to plan with these men in-person. After that, all communication between Sansa and Tywin would be conducted with the utmost stealth: a raven would deliver the message from Winterfell to Moat Cailin. A trusted messenger would take it to Riverrun. Another raven would take it from Riverrun to King’s Landing or Casterly Rock, depending on Tywin’s location at the time.

The plans for the battle were fleshed out now between Tywin, Edmure, and Bryan, per the outline that Sansa, Jaime, and Tywin had previously devised. When Cersei marched her armies north in a couple months, Tywin’s would follow two days behind.

The soldiers of House Tully and the Vale would fall into Tywin’s group, wearing Lannister colors. Once Cersei’s army arrived at the Moat, the coup would begin. Between the Stark archers at the Moat and the Lannister, Tully, and Vale forces behind them, they’d be pinched into a death trap. Any who fled would succumb to the swamps or be picked off by House Reed’s Crannogmen.

The problem, however, was that by the time Cersei’s armies marched north, Euron’s warships would already be laying siege to the coastal cities of the North. Shireen Baratheon’s small fleet would be docked at White Harbor, the largest and most critical port, and the one whose narrow inlet made it easiest to defend even when outnumbered. Tywin’s own warships along with the few belonging to the Riverlands and Vale would be a day behind Euron’s, but they could not make their presence known until the coup at Moat Cailin had begun, for fear of alerting Cersei to her father’s betrayal.

 _Can the northerners hold off the Ironborn for days, or weeks if it comes to that?_ Tywin had tried to convince Cersei to begin the land and sea attacks simultaneously, telling her it would overwhelm the North’s small force. Apparently, however, Euron’s confidence was more convincing, along with the advice of some of her commanders who hoped that after the attack on White Harbor, some of the soldiers at Moat Cailin would be sent to help reinforce the crucial port city – which would make it that much easier for the armies to pass through the Moat with fewer casualties.

Tywin knew that after the initial battle at the Moat, part of his army would travel south to claim the throne while the rest would have to continue north. No doubt, some of Cersei’s soldiers would make it through the Moat. Ironborn would make it inland from wherever Euron’s warships landed. At least some of the northern castles would be sacked by Cersei and Euron’s armies. It was almost unavoidable; the north was vast and even a group of thousands of men could travel through the Wolfswood undetected for a time, making it difficult for the Stark forces to find them. There could be battles waged at any number of the castles along the coast and inland, but it was of utmost imperative that Winterfell, Moat Cailin, and the Dreadfort would not fall. If they fell to Cersei or the Ironborn they could hold them for months if not years. Sansa had stressed this to Tywin, and he believed her. 

Tywin’s mind wandered back to when Sansa explained this to him during their initial negotiations, and the frightening conversation that ensued…

_Tyrion had shrugged off her fear with a jape, “My lady, if they take Winterfell, you and your Wildling women will simply need to tunnel back into the castle and kill everyone inside. Piece of cake!”_

_Sansa rolled her eyes, “That’s a day I’d rather not relive, Lord Tyrion.”_

_Tyrion made an exaggerated pout, “But I missed it! I wasn’t there to see Sansa Stark in all her glory, taking her home back from her enemies, killing Bolton men left and right, being named Queen in the North!” he spoke in an exaggeratedly stately tone._

_Sansa chuckled, “I did very little killing that day, Tyrion. Ask Val, she’ll gladly recount the_ real _events to you. I’m afraid I’m still no better with a sword and little improved with a dagger.”_

_Tywin remembered having the overwhelming need to gain insight into something he’d always wondered about, “My lady. How did you escape Ramsay Bolton in the first place? The rumors are quite varied – everything from a simple lucky strike with a dagger to you shape-shifting into a wolf and ripping his head off. Please, put my curiosity to rest.”_

_Tyrion’s eyes flew to Sansa; it seemed he did not know the truth of this, either. But Sansa just went still, her eyes vacant._

_Tywin started to apologize for asking but her icy voice stopped him, “Theon was the only one who knew for sure, and of course the Bolton men who found Ramsay’s body would have figured it out, but they’re all dead. All anyone else knows is rumor…”_

_Her eyes met Tywin’s with a sudden alertness, “I care not if anyone remembers me killing the Night King, or the Dragon Queen, or the creature that was Gregor Clegane. Those stories can die with me. But I want it on my grave marker, I want it written in the books of the North… Let them all know a wolf can only be chained for so long. Let every Northern child know that its teeth and claws will never dull, no matter what tortures the beast is put through. A wolf can be killed, yes, but as long as it lives it will be a wolf. Not a puppy, not a kitten, not a pretty bird in a cage. Let them know the story of what happened to the Flayed Man who thought he could kill a wolf without killing it. Do you understand me?”_

_Despite her somewhat cryptic words, he did. Tywin swallowed and nodded as his son did the same._

_Sansa told her tale with eerie slowness, as if she were reliving it. There were no notes of sadness or self-pity in her voice, only a steady, emotionless cadence, “Ramsay preferred to have me tied down. He enjoyed making his victims feel powerless, enjoyed making them beg. Occasionally he wanted a fight, though he made sure it was never a fair fight…”_

_“One day I stopped being scared. I stopped caring. There was nothing he could do to me that would be new. When I stopped caring he became reckless, sloppy. One night he forgot to bind my wrists, so eager was he to make me care again, to make me beg again. I left my hands above my head so he wouldn’t realize they were free. I took the pain, and I gave him what he wanted, so his lust would build. It was almost too easy. When he acted on his lust I still waited, with my hands above my head, I waited until the perfect moment – the moment a man is at his most vulnerable, eyes flittering closed, and I pulled his head down to my face. I bit as hard as I could into his throat. I bit and pulled and bit and pulled until I felt blood pouring into my mouth, but still I didn’t stop. I didn’t stop until his limbs stopped flailing, until his body stilled over mine. When it did, I rolled him off and found his dagger,” Sansa lifted the small dagger and looked at it fondly. “He loved this dagger. He loved recounting all the people who had suffered or died by its edge. And for them I stabbed him – in the neck, in the chest, in the belly. I would have stabbed him a thousand times, but I knew I needed to leave quickly while the castle was asleep. I made sure he was dead, and then I got dressed, and we left.”_

_Sansa’s tale chilled Tywin to the bone. He felt both afraid and awed, but she continued speaking as if she couldn’t stop now that she’d started, “When Theon and I got far from the walls of Winterfell he asked what happened, exactly. I told him I killed Ramsay the way a direwolf kills – I went for the throat. He made me tell him the details over and over again those first nights, it was the only thing that kept us going... The only thing that kept us sane. The only thing that kept us from turning that dagger on ourselves and finally putting an end to all the pain. We promised that we would die together by our own hands if the Boltons caught us. I thought we might do it even if they didn’t. We were so sick, so weak, me especially, but Theon kept me alive and kept me from giving up... At some point Theon chanced to stop at a village to buy food and supplies with the jewelry of mine that I took from my room. It was then that Jaime and Brienne spotted us. It was a mile from that village that they revealed themselves.”_

_She looked up to Tywin then, “Your son saved me, Tywin. He has protected me since that day. Tyrion has also protected and served me… and given me both counsel and friendship that I was sorely lacking. If you are not proud of your sons, then your heart is made of stone.”_

Tywin’s attention was drawn back to the war council, though he did not know what had been said in the past few minutes. He stood and gazed out the window. It was a sunny day. Last night there had been an unexpected snowstorm. Not truly a storm, he thought, for it lasted only an hour, though it did manage to coat the trees around Riverrun in glimmering white. Winter was battling Spring. Winter’s time was coming to an end, but it refused to go out without a fight. Tywin wondered if it had snowed at Winterfell, too, and if it had brought some measure of peace to the worried young queen. Perhaps it snowed heavier there. Perhaps north of the Moat the snows deepened considerably. Perhaps the Gods themselves willed the snow to fall, to give the Northmen another day or week or maybe even month to prepare for the war…

Tywin turned back to his companions, “Change of plans. The Knights of the Vale will begin sailing north as soon as we are done here in Riverrun. You will help hold the ports and the castles – you will do whatever your queen asks of you.”

Ser Bryan looked at Tywin queerly, “But we were to help you take the Capital, Lord Lannister…”

Tywin heard what he wasn’t saying – an accusation that Tywin was trying to be rid of the Knights so he could claim the throne for House Lannister instead of House Stark. “This is not a betrayal; I fear the Northerners will not be able to hold their kingdom. Their numbers are too low – they will be spread too thin. Tell me another way to get more men to them, without alerting Cersei to my alliance with Sansa, and we’ll do it.”

Bryan’s eyes narrowed, “You send men from Casterly Rock north by sea. I will join you as expected at the battle at the Moat.”

“Only Lords and Commanders know of our alliance, and it must remain that way. If I send thousands of soldiers north, word will spread to Cersei; we will lose the element of surprise.”

Ser Bryan met his eyes and was clearly thinking of a solution to their dilemma. Finally his expression softened, “We’ve been tying one hand behind our back when it needn’t be so!”

“Speak plainly, Ser,” Tywin huffed.

Ser Bryan did just that…  
  


* * *

**  
Tyrion**

“I still say this is too risky,” Jon shook his head, “If word of Sansa’s alliance with Tywin Lannister reaches…”

“It won’t,” Tyrion cut him off.

“But if it does…”

“It _won’t_ ,” Tyrion said more firmly.

Jon shook his head, “I wish I shared your confidence.”

The small ship that ferried Jon, Tyrion, and a group of eight guards from Bear Island was intercepted by Ironborn before they reached Great Wyck. They were surrounded by four warships – though one would have been more than enough against their little shipping vessel. After they were boarded, Tyrion explained who they were and why they were sent. Tyrion and Jon were disarmed and transported to Pyke on one of the ships while the other three stayed with the Mormont ship.

Upon arriving in Pyke, they were led rather roughly into a dark, cold great room. The only sign the place was inhabited was the roaring fire in a hearth taller than Jon.

They waited some time before the woman Tyrion assumed to be Yara Greyjoy entered. She strutted in like a sellsword – possessing neither a woman’s gait nor a knight’s grace – yet with all of a knight’s confidence and a woman’s appeal. She rather reminded Tyrion of a female Bronn, and the thought brought a smile to his face which thankfully the Ironborn leader didn’t see.

She poured each of them a cup of mead then sat heavily in an oversized chair, “I’ve already told your Queen I want no part in this war.”

“Indeed,” Tyrion responded, “And neither does she.”

“Hmpf,” Yara snorted, “Starks seem to have a way of finding reason to get involved in wars, much as they pretend they just want to stay in their frigid homeland in peace.”

Jon finally found his voice, “I can assure you this is one war that will be upon _us Starks_ whether we choose it or not.”

“Seems that way,” Yara shrugged, “But it won’t be upon _me_ whether I like it or not. You’ve come to ask me to reconsider my choice not to join your war… Save your breath; I’ve only recently taken back my home when Euron abandoned it to go serve that lion bitch, Cersei. I’ll not leave it unprotected.”

“And if Euron and Cersei are triumphant? How long before Euron seeks to take back the Iron Islands?” Tyrion asked rhetorically.

Yara exhaled through her nose loudly, “I’ll fight that battle if and when it comes to me. The Iron Islands are difficult to siege. Besides,” Yara smirked, “Maybe your _Ice Queen_ will be triumphant… or have you already given up hope?”

“Far from it,” Tyrion snorted, “As a matter of fact, our victory is all but assured due to a recent turn of events… though that is not to say it will be an _easy_ victory… with some additional assistance however…”

This got Yara’s attention, “What turn of events?”

“Let’s just say four kingdoms are now united against Cersei.”

Yara’s eyes narrowed, “The North, the Vale, the Riverlands, and Dorne?” Her curiosity turned to amusement, “You think I don’t know that Dorne is nothing but ash? And the Riverlands’ numbers are small. The North’s numbers have been decimated. The Vale has great knights, but they are not known for lending their aid… You come here hoping to fool me? Bluff me?” she spoke irately.

Tyrion shook his head, “You misread my words and my intent. My father and my queen have an agreement. They have united the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and the West.”

Yara threw her head back and laughed, “And here I thought today would be another boring day!”

Jon spoke, “Lord Tyrion speaks the truth,” he handed her a sealed parchment from Sansa.

Yara read it – twice by the look of it – then threw it into the fire, “Not even Queen of the Seven Kingdoms yet and already making threats? I thought you Starks were an honorable lot.”

Tyrion shook his head, “It is no threat; our queen speaks the truth in all matters. Either Euron and Cersei win – in which case your days are numbered; or Sansa and Tywin win – in which case you’ll want to be on the _good_ side of the Great Lion. Trust me – I’ve been on his bad side my entire life; it is not fun.”

“And what your queen offers is genuine? How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

“My sister only tricks her enemies. She very much wants to count you among her friends. If for no other reason than what your brother did for her.”

Yara huffed, “Sacking Winterfell? Killing her own brothers?”

Jon shook his head, “Theon did not kill Bran and Rickon. Moreover, he saved Sansa from the Boltons and helped her defeat the Night King and the Dragon Queen. Despite his mistakes, he was like a brother to her, and she would not dishonor him by betraying his sister.”

Yara stared into the flames for long moments, seemingly lost in thought. Jon and Tyrion remained motionless and silent. When Yara turned back, Tyrion thought her eyes were glistening, though her voice didn’t falter, “How can I help?”


	113. Home in Me

**Tywin**

“I appreciate your meeting with me, your grace. It seems we rarely see each other these days aside from the Small Council meetings.”

Cersei sipped wine in her solar. It wasn’t even midday yet, but it seemed she’d long ago forgotten there were things called water and tea. She drank from morning to night as far as Tywin could tell. Four guards had entered the room behind Tywin; apparently, he was no longer on the list of people who she trusted not to slit her throat.

“My time is limited, father, but your message intrigued me. You seem to have little faith in me.”

“On the contrary, daughter, I think victory is all but assured. However, the North is a vast and savage land, and their numbers grow with each of the allies they add.”

“Shireen Baratheon?” Cersei laughed, “The Knights of the Vale? Even if each had double its numbers, they would hardly be a drop in the bucket for the northern bitch.”

“The Knights of the Vale are well armored, mounted, and highly trained. But no, daughter, I was referring to her newest ally – Yara Greyjoy.”

Cersei’s eyes widened but a moment before she hid her surprise, “The little squid’s numbers are dwarfed by her uncle’s. It still won’t be enough.”

“They don’t need to match your numbers, daughter. They only need to close the gap. You are fighting in _their_ territory. When you sack a castle it takes at least four times the numbers as those defending it to be successful.”

Cersei looked annoyed and impatient, “Then what do you propose father?”

Tywin sighed and spoke regretfully, “I did not wish to have to do this, but it seems I must; I will join the battle. I will return to Casterly Rock and prepare to sail a portion of my men north. They will make landfall along the western coast of the North. I and the rest of my army will fall in behind yours as it marches on the North.”

A frightening grin split Cersei’s face, “Why the change of heart, father? You were quite adamant about staying out of this war; you said you wouldn’t betray the woman who came to your defense…” she said the words as if they were lies; as if Sansa's people hadn't come to Casterly Rock and fought alongside the Lannister forces.

Tywin looked down to his hands, working his jaw, “You did not need help before. Now you do. I will not enjoy fighting against Lady Sansa, but I cannot risk your failure. The girl has proven wily and her people resilient. She now has the numbers to engage you in a protracted war, which I do not wish to see even if you are all but guaranteed a victory at the end of it... which I am less certain of with each passing day.”

“And?” Cersei arched an eyebrow; she knew her father well, and Tywin had anticipated that.

“And… the Reach will become part of the Westerlands once we’re through… at least the western half of it.”

Cersei nodded, “This is agreeable; after all I plan to claim the Stormlands and Vale – those who go against the rightful Queen of Westeros will live to regret it.”

“And the North?” Tywin asked.

“The North will be brought to kneel. I will award Winterfell to someone who proves himself particularly loyal and valiant in the battles to come. A man from the West, the Riverlands, or the Crownlands.”

Tywin nodded, “And the so-called _Queen in the North_?”

Cersei’s cheeks reddened, and it wasn’t from the wine, “She killed my son. She stole my brother. She killed my most fierce and loyal protector. She dares to defy me when I was nothing but kind to the little wolf bitch during her time here. She will come to learn the meaning of pain. She will look back on her time with Ramsay Bolton as a holiday.”

Tywin straightened his doublet, “Would you be willing to reconsider? As my once ally, I’d prefer to see her have a swift and merciful execution.”

“That won’t do, father… but I promise you this – after she is broken, then I will grant her the gift of mercy. But only after she confesses to her involvement in Joffrey’s murder. Only after she publicly declares her support of my claim to the throne. When that day comes, father, you may swing the sword yourself to put her out of her misery.”

Tywin ground his teeth but nodded, “Very well. For her sake, I hope she chooses to give you what you want sooner rather than later. I leave for the Rock on the morrow. Tell Euron to focus on only the eastern ports and cities; my forces will handle the western ones.”

As Tywin departed Cersei’s solar, he felt no guilt, no remorse. Betrayal was something he was suddenly rather comfortable with.

\----------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sansa closed her eyes and tilted her face toward the midday sun, inhaling so deeply it was as if she was trying to steal all the air from the world. They sat atop their horses looking out over a glen a short ride from Winterfell’s Hunter’s gate. There was still snow in some places that were eternally cast in shadow, but in others the rock and dirt was visible. The sound of the stream that ran through the glen combined with the chorus of birds in the tall trees to create a melody that should be pleasant but was instead ominous – _Spring is coming… Spring is here._

Sandor chased the dreadful thought from his mind, instead focusing on the beautiful woman in his company. She finally exhaled, “Thank you,” she whispered into the air, though he knew the gratitude was directed at him. Pride swelled in his chest. He knew she was working herself to the bone, as was he, to prepare for the arrival of Cersei’s army, but one day away for each of them would not be the difference between success and failure. He had convinced her of this late the previous night, and she agreed rather willingly. Sandor wondered if she was feeling guilty about her decision to join with the Old Lion. The selfish part of him thought it wasn’t the worst thing if it meant Sansa might be even more obliging in her interactions with Sandor.

“I think we both need a break, little bird. I think we both deserve it.”

She nodded somewhat pensively, “It’s beautiful here. Thank you for bringing me.”

Sandor laughed, “This isn’t where I’m bringing you. Just thought you’d like to see it, if you never have.”

“I haven’t. I told you I rarely left the castle walls when I was a child. Bran or Arya may have discovered it… or Jon or Robb or Theon while hunting, but I’ve never seen this place.”

“Mm, you were always in a cage, little bird. Just didn’t know it.”

She looked about to protest then laughed instead – a sound Sandor hadn’t heard in a few weeks, “I suppose you’re right, though it was a rather spacious and comfortable cage. I was fed well and free to sing all I wanted! And no one thought to pluck out my feathers just for their own amusement… Best of all, I had no choices – like whether to fly away or stay. Gods, it’s a cage I’d gladly return to if I could…”

She was joking, but Sandor knew there was truth behind her words. He had come to respect that making difficult choices might be the worst form of torture for someone who cared as deeply as Sansa. He himself gave up making choices the day he started working for Tywin Lannister. He followed orders and slept fine each night (though admittedly after consuming much wine) no matter how _questionable_ though orders may have been. Then, many years later, he labored at the Quiet Isle, digging graves, sweeping rooms, scrubbing dishes. He didn’t speak, just did what he was told, and there was a certain peace in that. It was only here, and through Elder Brother’s counsel, that he realized all those years he served the Lannisters he _was_ making a choice – he chose to continue serving an unworthy master, and thus his masters’ choices became his own. His masters’ sins became his own…

And now, after such a brief time as a “free” man, he was serving a new master. But this one was worthy. Though he wondered if it was all the same in the end… he deferred the big choices to her. She was choosing to stay and fight instead of running away, so he would stand and fight by her side, even though he desperately wanted to flee. He didn’t tell her, but he had a bad feeling about the war to come. Cersei could be so unpredictable and surprisingly cunning. Despite the obvious downsides, he felt relief when Sansa decided to ally with Tywin Lannister, then a couple days ago when Jon and Tyrion returned from Pyke bearing good news. But still this indefinable fear nagged at Sandor whenever his mind and body were free of other distractions. A voice told him this war would still not be an easy victory. Would Tywin or Yara betray Sansa? Did Cersei or Euron have something up their sleeve – like the Night King when he used the dead dragon to attack Winterfell?

Sandor shook his head to clear his thoughts, focusing again on the little bird, “Come on then; on to our final destination.”

Sansa eyed him curiously but said no more as they trod through the forest, his courser occasionally snorting and nipping at her mare, though the mare looked more annoyed than intimidated. Like Sansa when Sandor was in one of his moods, only Sandor was fairly certain Stranger was feeling frisky rather than agitated at the moment, “Settle down you stud; work before play. When we tether you both you can try your luck with her; might be she won’t kick you in your teeth if you show some manners.”

Sansa smiled, “If he learned manners from his master, I’m not holding out hope.”

Sandor pretended to be insulted, “Hmpf, and if _she_ takes after _her_ master, might be she’ll like his bad manners.”

A loud giggle echoed through the trees, “How do you know I don’t like you _in spite_ of those manners, not _because_ of them?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, little bird. I see the thrill in your eyes when I whisper all the scandalous and ungentlemanly things I want to do to you… also see you come undone when I actually do them.”

Her cheeks flushed crimson, proving his point. It was such a lovable look on her – the warrior queen who still blushed at talk of what happened between the sheets – but a different sight caught his eyes, “Ah, we’re almost there, close your eyes, little bird.”

“How can I steer the horse?!”

Sandor reached for the reins, shimmying Stranger closer to Lightning, much to the former’s pleasure. Sansa huffed but closed her eyes, even covering them with one hand while the other held the pomel. They rode another minute before it came into full view. He had discovered it on a recent hunt: an abandoned but intact cottage. Who or whom it belonged to he did not know… he thought, perhaps, it was some man who’d died in the war.

It was built of stone with a thatched roof. It had a heavy wood door and a few windows to let in light and air, though there was no glass. The building itself was plain and small, but the roof overhung the house in the front – creating a covered porch that had only been missing, well, the _porch._ Sandor had remedied that easily enough by putting Cris and Brant on the job. It took them only two days to lay slate rock out front to create the porch and to make minor repairs to the structure itself. Podrick had been enlisted to help them haul the slate rocks and clean up the inside – sweeping away cobwebs, cleaning out the hearth, and swapping the old straw mattress and wool blankets for a feather mattress and furs they pilfered from the castle. A trip to the flirtatious seamstress in Winter Town supplied them with linens for the bed and curtains for the windows, and Brant and Cris had crafted and affixed wooden shutters on the outside.

Podrick apparently went above and beyond Sandor’s orders – planting flowers to create a border for the slate floor that formed the porch.

What pleased Sandor the most was the sight of the two rocking chairs which he’d bought off the innkeeper at Wintertown – overpaying of course. With more time on his hands he’d have liked to make them himself, but he spent every waking hour in the training yard with the new recruits or assisting in the map room with the battle planning.

“Alright little bird, open your eyes.”

She did and looked confused, “Where are we? Whose house is this?”

“Ours. Well, I claimed it as ours; it was abandoned – for a couple years, I’d wager. With a little imagination we can pretend it’s near the beach in Pentos, and that it’s surrounded by citrus trees instead of pines. In another month or two we can plant vegetables, of course, though with no one around the rabbits will probably just feast on them, unless we can attract a cat to the area, or perhaps some in the barn will have kittens...”

Sandor trailed off and looked down, realizing he was talking about a future they may never have. One of them could die in the war, and if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be spending time here – they’d be living in King’s Landing. Sansa seemed to have noticed his change in demeaner for she grasped his forearm, “Sandor, this is beautiful. It’s lovely… it’s _perfect_. When we come back to visit Winterfell we can come here – like our own private holiday.”

He smiled sadly at her, “Of course. Want to look inside?”

She nodded eagerly and dismounted, tethering her mare to a tree while Sandor did the same with Stranger on a tree some twelve feet away. Later, he’d bring a couple buckets out and pump water from the well, though the horses were fine for now – these well-bred chargers could ride hours on end at a canter without pause. The ride from Winterfell had taken just under an hour at a leisurely trot. Lightning was already munching on some dry pine brushes that covered the forest floor here, while Stranger sniffed the air, no doubt interested in what Lightning was not selling. Sandor chuckled to himself as he stroked the destrier’s neck, “Remember boy – _manners_ … she’s not some pack horse, she’s a fine courser.” He winked at the horse and turned to find Sansa smirking at him from the porch.

“You going to spend all day with your horse or with your lady.”

“Easy decision”, he grinned back, as he closed the distance between them in a few long strides and tossed Sansa over his shoulder. She let out a yelp at suddenly being upside down but silenced after Sandor delivered a pat to her rump. Once inside, he deposited her unceremoniously on the bed and immediately caught her face between his paws, “I’d offer to give you the tour later, but you’re already seeing all there is to see,” he nodded over his shoulder. The cottage consisted of one good-size room, which had a hearth that doubled as a stove, a small table with two chairs and two benches, a wardrobe, bed, and two side tables. Only a loft was out of sight to her, but it was only big enough for sleeping or storing housewares.

Sansa looked around anyway, biting her lip pensively, “I think it was a couple that lived here. An older couple perhaps who’d never had children, or whose children were gone away.”

Sandor nodded, “I thought the same. There’s needle and thread in one of the drawers. And in the wardrobe, there was a rough spun dress, too big for you, along with some men and women’s small clothes. Nothing else.”

Sansa nodded, “I hope they had a happy life. I hope they are together now, in the dark place.”

Sandor wrapped his arms around her waist, “They are, my love. I feel no pain at this place, do you?”

“You’re right…” Sansa mumbled with some surprise, “It feels like a happy place. Perhaps the husband had died in the war, and his wife could have succumbed to fever during the past winter. Or perhaps she left to live with grown children. It doesn’t seem they left many possessions behind…”

Sandor looked around the room again, as if seeing it for the first time. He imagined this couple, perhaps in their fifties, sitting in front of the fire on a cold night. The husband was whittling and the wife sewing. Their life would have been hard, no doubt, but simple. He wondered how the man was with a sword – living isolated in the woods like this, with a woman to protect. Then he remembered that Sansa had once told him how peaceful the North was during Ned Stark’s time as Warden. There weren’t roving bandits or rapers. On rare occasion a deserter from the Wall would come, but they typically stole rather than harmed. They were more interested as getting as far away from the Wall as possible rather than stopping to satisfy some carnal pleasure with an unwilling woman. It was almost unbelievable to a man who lived nearly two decades in King’s Landing that there existed such a safe place. Women in King’s Landing learned to wield daggers to protect themselves, but all too often that wasn’t enough. No place was safe in that cesspool. _But perhaps with Sansa as Queen it could be so much better…_

Sansa cupped his cheeks, “Come back to me.”

“I’m here… just thinking… but good thoughts, don’t worry.”

She nodded, gently pulling his head down so their foreheads touched, breathing his air as he breathed hers. His hands rested on her hips, hers on his shoulders.

“I’m tired,” she sighed.

“I know… it’s alright, we don’t have to—”

“No. Only you can ease this… this… _heaviness_ in my bones, and in my heart. Please…”

He’d always oblige his queen. He’d die serving her in some way – important or trivial, it mattered not. Her face would be the last thing he saw, if he was lucky. If he wasn’t, her name would certainly be the last word on his lips.

But that day was hopefully a long way off. Now she was here, in the flesh, warm and healthy. He kissed her knuckles then her palms. He kissed her cheeks, then her lips, then her neck. He peeled her clothing off layer by layer, piece by piece, exposing new places to kiss each time. He kissed the sacred place between her legs, the only place he ever worshipped, the only place he ever felt there was some _rightness_ in the world… some joy, some justice, some love. And when he entered her, he did so slowly, carefully, noting every sensation not just in the place they were joined but in his entire body. The muscles in his back and hips that moved him against her. The muscles in his arms and legs that held him up. The softness of her skin and hair against his rough fingers or lips. The expansion in his chest that was simultaneously painful and euphoric.

There were some whispered words of love and lust when she shattered and pulled him down to her. He tried to keep himself propped on elbows, but she kept pulling, “Please, Sandor, I want to feel all of you on all of me.”

Her words brought him to the brink, and he let his weight drop, one hand now looped around her thigh and the other looped around her waist, while he buried his face into the pillow beside her head. Chest to chest, belly to belly he came undone, jerking each time some of his seed pulsed out. Out of him and into her. _A bit of me inside her._ His pleasure-delirious mind wished that some part of her could be in him, but such was not the way the Gods designed man and woman.

When he came to his senses enough to try to roll off of her, she held tight with her arms and legs wrapped around him, “Please. This is a heaviness I welcome. In fact, being crushed by you in this context might just be the way I hope to die.”

Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle, “You’re spending too much time with me, little bird, if that’s your idea of romantic words.”

They laid together in the bed for some time, both content with doing _nothing_ for a change. Sandor stroked his finger idly along the scars on her belly, even the Bolton branding. It didn’t infuriate him as it once did. She ran her fingers through his hair as he did so. It was so domestic Sandor once again had to banish the futile desire for _this_ to be their life. He decided on a distraction, “Sing me a song, little bird.”

She sighed, “I have a new one, though it’s rather sappy…”

“You know I don’t mind sappy songs, so long as you’re the one singing them,” he lifted her hand to kiss her fingers.

“It’s not happy. Well, it actually is very happy, to me, but the melody is sad.”

Sandor looked at her, “You worried you’re going to make me glum?” She nodded and he grinned, “Then you’ll have to find a way to lift my spirits afterwards. I have some suggestions in that regard…”

She swatted his arm but scooted to sit against the headboard. He stayed laying in the bed, face nuzzled against her ribs, which he realized were less prominent now than they’d ever been.

> _Pale September, I wore my pain like a dress that year  
> _ _The autumn days surrounded me like nettles on my skin  
> _ _And as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared  
> _ _My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within_
> 
> _But then he rose, brilliant as the moon in full  
> _ _And sank in the burrows of my keep_
> 
> _A_ _nd all my armor falling down  
> _ _In a pile at my feet  
> _ _And my winter giving way to warm  
> _ _As I'm singing him to sleep_
> 
> _He goes along just as a water lily  
> _ _Gentle on the surface of his thoughts, his body floats  
> _ _Not weighed down by regret or uncertainty  
> _ _Yet unaware of the depth upon which he coasts_
> 
> _And he finds a home in me  
> _ _For what misfortune sows, he knows my touch will reap_
> 
> _And all my armor falling down_  
>  In a pile at my feet  
> And my winter giving way to warmth  
> As I'm singing him to sleep

He realized she was done, but he didn’t want it to be over, for as the song foretold, she was lulling him to sleep. It was early afternoon, but a nap seemed called for and deserved.

“Again,” he mumbled against her skin, watching gooseflesh form where his breath tickled. She obliged him with a repeat performance. When it was done, he yawned into her side, “Again...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song credit Fiona Apple - Pale September
> 
> Soo... When I started this fic I quickly realized I needed to write a timeline. As you've probably noticed I use Gregorian calendar because it's just more relatable, though as with ASOIAF there aren't four seasons in a year but rather an individual season can last several years. 
> 
> I decided to use this song because I love it and it reminds me of Sandor and Sansa, almost like it was made for them (with some minor adaptation). I looked back to my timeline and realized in my fic September was the month of the Battle of the Blackwater - AKA when Sandor left Sansa in KL. So it worked out really perfectly... 
> 
> In case anyone is interested in seeing it, my next chapter posting will just be my timeline. I haven't edited it since originally creating it, so it's possible it's off by a little bit. And it doesn't go up to the point we are presently in the story. If you don't read it, you're not missing anything, but perhaps someone out there will find it interesting.


	114. Timeline (background info)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case it's of interest to anyone, here is the timeline I used when writing this fic. I haven't included any dates beyond where we currently are in the story, so rest assured: no spoilers.
> 
> Reminder: In Westeros, months don't coincide with seasons, so July isn't necessarily summer. I just use the names of month to keep myself organized.

** Timeline: **

** Part I: Compliant with book canon, except Sansa aged up: **

Jan 298: Sansa’s 16th nameday

May 298: **Sansa, Eddard and Arya leave for KL.**

September 298: Hand’s Tourney

October 298: King Robert dies, Ned arrested

November 298: Robb leaves Winterfell

 **Jan 299: Ned Stark executed;** Arya escapes KL; Renly declares himself King; 2nd battle of Riverrun, Jaime captured by Robb; Sansa’s 17th nameday (will never celebrate it again, b/c it occurred 3 days after Ned killed)

Feb 299: Tyrion named Hand to King Joffrey

March 299: Stannis declares himself King

June 299: Renly dies; Brienne and Catelyn flee

July 299: Myrcella sent to Dorne; **Theon takes Winterfell**

Sep 299: **Battle of Blackwater;** Tywin and Tyrells arrive in KL; Sandor flees

Sep 299: Catelyn frees Jaime; Tywin named Hand

Oct 299: **Boltons sack Winterfell;** Theon taken prisoner; Jaime loses hand; Arya escapes Harrenhal, meets BwB

Nov 299: Jaime reaches Harrenhal; Sansa married to Tyrion; **Sandor catches Arya**

Dec 299: Jaime leaves Harrenhal with Brienne; **Red Wedding;** Sam flees Craster’s Keep

Jan 300: Purple Wedding; **Sansa escapes KL** ; Jaime returns to KL; Arya/Sandor arrive at Village of the Moon; Jaime sends Brienne to find Sansa/Arya; Sansa’s 18th nameday.

Feb 300: Sansa/Petyr travel to Vale; Lysa Arryn killed **; Brienne and Sandor fight; Arya leaves Sandor to die at the Saltpans,** boards ship “The Titan’s daughter”; Jon elected LC of the Watch

Mar 300: Jaime leaves KL, arrives at Harrenhal; **some Wildlings join Night’s Watch**

Apr 300: **Brienne arrives in Saltpans looking for Arya,** visits Quiet Isle, Elder Brother confirms Hound is dead, but says he hasn’t ever seen Arya.

** Part II: mostly my creation: **

May 300: **Brienne goes to Vale to look for Sansa**. Petyr keeps Sansa (Alayne) hidden, but her friend Myranda Royce later tells her about the large blond lady-knight who was asking after her.

June 300: Jaime’s siege of Riverrun, makes deal with Edmure, Blackfish taken hostage. Jaime reunites with Brienne who was there looking for Arya/Sansa

July 300: **Sansa married to Harry the Heir.** Petyr’s “relationship” with Sansa begins

Nov 300: Sansa impregnated (unbeknownst to her); Harry dies of fever, making Sansa Robert Arryn’s heir. Littlefinger proposes she marries Ramsay Bolton. **Brienne and Jaime leave to search Saltpans then further north looking for Stark girls**

Jan 301: Sansa turns 19; Sansa supports Petyr as Regent / Lord Protector of the Vale until Robert Arryn comes of age; Sansa leaves the Vale

Feb 301: **Sansa arrives at Winterfell; marries Ramsay. Is ~3 mos pregnant**

July 301: **Sansa gives birth,** presumably one month premature; Ramsay kills baby

Oct 301: **Sansa kills Ramsay** ; Theon and she flee north; meet Jaime/Brienne/Podrick. Jaime/Brienne swear themselves to Sansa.

Nov 301: S/T/J/B/P arrive at Castle Black; Sansa sends ravens to three Houses, who reply and agree to join her at Castle Black. Jon tells her of the Wights and White Walkers; shows her the Wight they keep in a crate.

Dec 301: Sansa meets Tormund, Wildlings, make pact; Stark bannermen arrive, see the Wight; battle plans are laid out, Jon helps, but will not leave CB to fight in the battle. Sansa’s forces leave CB for Last Hearth. Her group arrives at Last Hearth, begin preparing with Umber’s forces. Meanwhile, Mormont’s forces sail from Bear Island to meet Glover forces at Deepwood Motte

Jan 302: Sansa turns 20; Battle plan and preparation: Sansa’s forces split: half of the Wildlings proceed with Glover and Glover’s army to attack Dreadfort (the diversion). Other half of Wildlings go with Sansa, Theon, Tormund, Jaime, Brienne, Alysane Mormont, and Hother Umber to meet the rest of the Mormont/Umber forces in the Wolfswood, where they hide while waiting for Bolton forces to depart Winterfell for the Dreadfort.

Feb 302: **Battle for the North.** Bolton forces leave Winterfell toward Dreadfort, are attacked by Mormont/Umber forces from the West, while remainder of Wildling army attacks remaining men in Winterfell. Sansa leads 70 Wildling women through tunnel to take out archers and open the main gates, allowing Wildlings to flood in. Vast majority of Bolton forces are killed in battle; few hundred men who surrender are executed by Sansa, Mormont, Umber, and Glover. The battle becomes known as the _Battle for the North._ **Sansa named Queen in the North.** Later, Bolton/Freys at Moat Cailin surrender and are executed; Sansa awards Derik Snow Moat Cailin, legitimizes him as Derik Cassel. Beth Cassel becomes Lady of House Cassel

Mar-May 302: Winterfell repairs begin; Sansa rules. Northern houses come gradually to kneel to Sansa. Sansa names Daryl Poole (fic) captain-of-the-guards and Byrnard Ryswell (fic) as Castellan. She doesn’t name a master-at-arms, hoping to give this position to Jaime or Brienne eventually. Supply wagons bringing much-needed goods from White Harbor to Winterfell are frequently attacked by bandits.

Apr 302: **Sansa asks Brienne, Jaime, and Podrick to leave in search of any stark siblings** – Arya, Bran, Rickon. Brienne doesn’t want to leave Sansa’s side, but Sansa is firm. **Meanwhile Jon and other NW meets the Night King’s army** after sailing north along the eastern coast, while on a mission to rescue the remaining wildlings. _Estimates dead only five months away from wall._

May 302: **Sandor, Beric, and Thoros arrive in Winterfell.**

June 302: **Daenerys visits Winterfell** with Jorah and Missandei; Jon and Tormund, other bannermen also visit. **Brienne, Jaime, Podrick return with Tyrion.** Sansa, Dany, et al leave for CB.

July 302: **Sansa, Dany, et al arrive at CB.** Viserion (dragon) killed by Night King. Dany departs CB. Night King burns Sansa’s arm in her dream. Sansa, Jon, et al plan for upcoming battle. Sansa et al leave for Winterfell. Lord Umber rides west to meet Sansa along the Kingsroad so they can discuss the plan.

Aug 302 **: Sansa et al arrive back at WF and focus on fortifying the castle** , focusing repairs on the castle defenses, armories, etc. They install multiple bolt throwers along the external walls because they know that the wights include giants. Forge thick arrows out of dragonglass for this purpose. **Sandor turns 32.**

Sep 302: **Wall falls,** Night King uses wight Viserion to destroy it at Eastwatch by the sea.

Oct 302: **Battle for Life** takes place in Winterfell. Wight Viserion mostly attacks the men in the field, likely because NK knows Sansa is within the walls and doesn’t want to risk killing her. Sandor uses a bolt thrower (a big, mounted crossbow) to slay the dragon. Sansa died but Melisandre and Thoros bring her back to life. Battle becomes known as **The Long Night.**

Dec 302: Daenerys begins her attack on Westeros, starting from Dorne, working her way east to west, then up the coast, hitting Highgarden and heading for Casterly Rock.

Jan 303: SS answers TL’s call, brings her armies to Casterly Rock to lend aid. **Sansa turns 21.**

Feb 303: SS and her armies arrive in Casterly Rock; Baelish is there. Battle with dragon queen, Sansa slays her, then is kidnapped and brought to Cersei. Trial by combat SS kills GC.

Mar 303: back in Winterfell, repairs to castle continue. Tyrion spies tell that Cersei will attack come spring.

Apr 303: Signs of Spring in the North. PB comes to Winterfell with KoV – SS accuses him of murder and other crimes; Sandor kills him; KoV pledge to SS.

June 303: snow continues melting, SS intel says Cersei and Euron preparing to invade the North once snows are clear.

July 303: SS receives secret letter from TL, meets him at Moat Cailin to discuss alliance.


	115. Strawberry Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I haven't posted in a month!! 
> 
> A fun little chapter because we all need some fun, including these characters.

**Addam**

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Lady Stark?” Addam opened the door to his comfortable chambers. He had been staying in the family quarters as Sansa trusted all who lived there to keep Addam’s presence a secret. As far as they were aware, word of his presence in the North was still unknown beyond Sansa’s closest confidantes and undyingly loyal bannermen (and, of course, Lord Tywin and a few of his trusted commanders).

“Please, Addam – if I may be so casual – call me Sansa when we’re outside the war council.”

“As you wish, Sansa.”

In his time with the northern queen these several weeks Addam continued to find himself pleasantly surprised. Of course, he spent most of his time with his friend, Ser Jaime, but he saw enough of the queen during the war councils to be impressed by her keen mind, but even more so by her capacity for compromise. She wasn’t dictatorial; she genuinely listened and considered the opinions of those around her and didn’t appear to suffer from a bruised ego when her own ideas or suggestions were demerited. It was the way all great lords and ladies should be, but so few were.

Addam thought of his own lord, Tywin Lannister. Tywin certainly _seemed_ to have an ego the size of his goldmines, but he was at least willing to take advice from a select few people – Addam proud to be among them – and set aside his own painstaking plans when others found fault in them. Though truthfully, it wasn’t often; the man was sharp minded in ruling, warring, and scheming. Addam tried not to look too far ahead, but he imagined the young queen could learn much from her future husband in the years to follow. And, perhaps, her husband could learn a few things from her in terms of winning the people’s love – which Sansa seemed to do even without trying.

“I thought we might dine together tonight, Addam, if you’re so inclined.” Another stark difference between Sansa and other highborn: she actually _was_ giving him a choice, not just a polite order.

“Nothing would make me happier, my— Sansa.”

“Wonderful!” Sansa led Addam to her private chambers where a small buffet was set out along with several place settings. She saw his eyes looking at the disproportionate amount of food, “Tyrion and Jaime may join us later, and they always seem to have an appetite... and _thirst…_ ”

Adam chuckled, “Indeed.”

Sansa herself poured them each a glass of wine from a flagon then made her plate. Once seated and a few bites into their supper Sansa spoke, “I’m afraid it must be rather boring for you here, when not in the war council. I have you living like a captive. I do apologize that there isn’t another way.”

Addam snorted, “Sansa, your concern is appreciated, though I’ve been an _actual_ captive and I can tell you, they never gave me wine,” he gestured to the spread, “or stewed venison, roasted vegetables, smashed potatoes, and—oh my, is that a strawberry pie?”

Sansa looked over and nodded, “Strawberry-pear I suspect. The cook knows it’s one of my favorites.”

“How do you have strawberries this far north so early in Spring?”

“Our glass gardens – they insulate the plants from the cold and magnify the sun’s rays. We are blessed to have them.”

“I’ve heard of such buildings, though never have seen one up close.”

“Then I shall have to sneak you out of your cell to give you a tour!” she offered brightly, “Winterfell’s glass gardens are the most impressive you’ll see.”

Addam chuckled, “I know you’re jesting Sansa, but truly, my accommodations are quite comfortable, and I understand the need for secrecy.”

Sansa nodded, “Of course. Though it isn’t just the accommodations – or lack thereof – that make a captivity so dreadful, is it? It’s the lack of _freedom_.”

Addam looked at her, almost forgetting she’d been a captive herself, “Indeed…” he chewed his carrots thoughtfully, “My worst was a muddy war camp in the Riverlands. My feet weren’t dry for three months, and all they gave me to eat was bone broth – more nutritious than it tastes, incidentally, but doesn’t even give a short-term feeling of fullness like one gets from some stale bread or hard cheese. Gods, I would have taken a beating every day for _one_ bite of bread!” he chuckled as he spoke.

Sansa chuckled, “I’m afraid I can’t relate. Most of my captivities had sufficient food, dry stockings, even a feather bed to sleep upon, but beatings galore!” Her smile faded as she realized the direction she’d taken the conversation. She looked embarrassed.

Addam smiled sadly but not pityingly at her, “So, my worst was three soggy months in the Riverlands. What was your worst?”

Before she could answer Tyrion’s loud voice called from the doorway where he stood with Jaime, “Starting without us?”

The taller Lannister brother looked ashamed, “I told him to knock.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Still trying to catch me in the bath, Tyrion?”

Addam coughed on his wine, not believing the words he’d just heard. At seeing his reaction Sansa blushed crimson, “Apologies, Ser… it seems my sense of decorum has become weakened.”

Tyrion nodded, entirely unfazed, “You can blame me. And my brother. And the Hound. And Thoros.” He turned to Jaime looking thoughtful, “Actually, it’s amazing our queen has _any_ manners left whatsoever!”

Sansa’s look of concern broke, “You’re forgetting Tormund and Arya.”

Tyrion slapped his forehead, “The worst of the lot!”

Addam chuckled, “Ah yes, the youngest Stark. I believe she’s the one who accosted me outside the map room with a promise to remove a certain part of my anatomy only to put it into a _different_ part of my anatomy should I betray her sister.” Addam was sure to speak without malice. He found the small girl’s feistiness and protectiveness – even her crude mouth – strangely endearing. He wondered if that’s why his lord had a soft spot for her. Tywin – who confided in very few people other than Addam – told him about when the girl, disguised as a boy, served as his cupbearer at Harrenhal. He had found her clever and bold. Even after the Battle of Fire and Ice, when Arya tried to murder Tywin, he seemed to respect her sense of initiative, no matter that he was her intended victim.

When asked by his three companions what he was thinking, he told them, though left out any specific words his lord had used out of respect for his privacy.

Tyrion pursed his lips, “You know, Arya is both fearless and ruthless. Not afraid to speak her mind, even to the Great Lion… I could see my father admiring that.”

“Clearly,” without thinking Addam hooked his thumb toward Queen Sansa.

All three companions froze and Addam simultaneously felt like he’d said nothing wrong and that he’d divulged his lord’s deepest secrets. It was apparent to Addam that Tywin felt some pull toward the queen that went beyond her claim. He saw it in Tywin’s eyes while Sansa was missing, and later when she was Cersei’s captive and during the trial. He saw it when Tywin learned of Cersei’s plot to attack the North. It wasn’t the usual frustration, anger, and judgment Addam saw in Tywin’s eyes whenever one of his children or grandchildren did something foolish or reckless. Addam saw Tywin Lannister looking _worried_ for the first time since he’d met the man. He saw him looking worried and pensive for days at a time, as if concern for the Queen in the North was the sole thought occupying his normally busy mind.

Addam knew his cheeks had reddened but he tried to continue casually, “Is it not obvious that Lord Lannister respects your queen?” he directed at Tyrion and Jaime.

Before they could answer the very subject of their recent discussion bounded in unannounced. Arya Stark – followed by an embarrassed-looking Jon Stark.

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Gods, does _nobody_ knock? I should think a queen – even one as unlikely as me – should demand _at least_ that much respect.”

Tyrion smiled, “Arya was hoping to find you with Ser Addam’s hands wrapped around your neck so she could fulfill her promise.”

Arya didn’t bother looking ashamed, instead helping herself to a heaping portion of strawberry pie. Sansa glared at her, “Arya, have you even eaten supper yet?”

Arya rolled her eyes, “No, _mother._ ”

Jon snorted from the seat he’d taken next to Jaime, “Arya, I think Sansa is being more than fair; Lady Catelyn would have snatched the plate out of your hands.”

“Yes, like _this,_ ” quick as a fox Sansa pulled the plate away from her sister and began taking as many bites as she could.

Jon – the most stoic of the Starks by Addam’s measure – must have been in good spirits for he slid the plate away from his sister’s clutches, “No, like _this,_ ” and devoured the rest of the pie in two bites.

Tyrion and Jaime looked thoroughly amused, though Addam could only stare in shock at the giggling Stark children – though he supposed they weren’t children after all they’d individually and collectively endured. They looked amused and quite pleased with themselves.

But as a spoonful of smashed potato flew through the air and landed on Sansa’s neck, all gasped in horror. Sansa herself stood stunned – eyes wide, mouth agape. Her little sister looked not the least bit sorry, “Keep your mouth open, Sansa, makes a perfect target.”

But as Arya turned toward the serving table to reload her spoonful of potatoes, Sansa picked some from her plate with her ladylike fingers, and whipped it at the back of Arya’s head, landing right in her shiny brown hair.

This time it was Arya who turned around looking shocked, but the expression quickly morphed into one of frightening intensity. Sansa held up her hands, “Arya, we have an honored guest here. That’s enough horseplay. You got me, I got you. Even?”

Arya shook her head, eyes still wide, “Nope!”

With an eek, Sansa dove and crouched behind Jaime, moving from side to side to look around each shoulder at her attacker. Jaime winced, “My queen, I will gladly die for you, but I will not take a faceful of–” He was silenced when some soft vegetable – likely a turnip or yam – smacked him in the eye.

Tyrion, who could barely speak from laughing, stood up, “I shall avenge you, brother!” With speed unexpected from his short legs he stationed himself behind Jon Stark, dinnerplate in hand, and launched his attack on Arya who was now unprotected.

With a resigned sigh Addam stood and stepped in front of Arya with exaggerated bravery, “What kind of knight would I be if I didn’t protect a maiden in distress?”

The girl couldn’t help but smile at him and took advantage of her new shield to catapult vegetables from over and around his shoulders, aiming for Tyrion and Sansa, though often hitting Jon or Jaime, just as Tyrion and Sansa often hit Addam.

The commotion must have been heard beyond the Queen’s door, for soon a gravelly voice was came from the doorway, “What in bloody hells…” the Hound’s eyes widened at the unlikely sight. Before he could receive an answer, the crazy Wildling lord Tormund pushed past him and charged the serving table, Addam and Arya jumping out of his way to avoid being stampeded.

“You had a food battle without me!?” he bellowed in what appeared to be genuine anger, before unleashing his fury on all those around him. As his opponents struck back, he backed toward the Hound, dodging carrots, and stood behind the only man next to whom the Wildling looked small.

“You fucking mad ginger! I’m not going to be—” the Hound was silenced by a blob of strawberry pie filling that hit him in the nose.

Wiping off the offending substance he looked at it for a moment before taking a tentative lick off his fingers, “Strawberry? You miscreants are wasting strawberries?! Who threw this – the little bird, the little wolf, or the little lion?”

All hands pointed to Sansa who smirked proudly, while Jaime scrunched his face.

The Hound shook his head, “Get her, Tormund!”

The temporary standstill over, food flew freely until there was no more.

Wiping potato from his beard, the Hound asked, “Who started this, anyway?”

Half the mouths said “Arya” as the other half said “Sansa”.

“And here I thought _ladies_ were supposed to have manners…” the Hound seemed to direct his statement primarily at Arya, who stuck her tongue out in response.

Sansa was back in Queen mode immediately, “Now you’re all helping to clean up this mess. I refuse to call servants to tend to this.”

Several groans were heard but no one protested. As all present set to work wiping food off of floors, tables, desks, and even the walls, Addam couldn’t help but wonder if this had all been a dream. _A really weird fucking dream._ Five of the highest-born people in the realm, an honored knight, the man lethal enough to be sworn shield to kings and queens, and a giant, fearsome Wildling – all cleaning up the Queen’s solar because they had partaken in a food fight. Addam found himself laughing involuntarily, particularly when he thought of what Lord Tywin would say about all this. Though Addam had always been fond of Jaime and Tyrion, he couldn’t imagine either being so lighthearted and carefree Tywin’s presence – or Cersei’s for that matter.

Jaime heard his chuckle and looked up, “I’d ask what’s so funny, Addam, but I think it’s fairly obvious.”

Addam smiled at his old friend, thinking these Northerners – born and adopted – just might have the right outlook on life.

\---------------------------

**Sandor**

Sansa rolled to face him, “Now I need _another_ bath, thank you.”

Sandor pushed up on his elbows to hover over her body, “Then I guess I wasn’t very thorough in licking you clean,” he flicked his tongue across one of Sansa’s nipples, which hardened instantly though it had seen plenty of attention already this night.

Sansa whimpered at his touch, threading her fingers into his hair. A few minutes ago she was thoroughly sated and boneless, but it seemed she had a little left in her…

“I might just be developing a sweet tooth, little bird.”

She snorted, “Who knew all it would take was using _me_ as a plate?”

Sandor grinned smugly, recalling how an hour ago he’d entered her bedchamber with a generous slice of strawberry pie he’d retrieved from the kitchens. For a few moments he stood, watching Sansa brush her damp hair near the hearth. Upon seeing him, Sansa looked confused only a moment before her eyebrow arched, _“You look famished, Ser,”_ she spoke while pulling loose the ties of her robe.

Sandor came back to the present and replied to her jape, “I’ve always said your skin is like fine porcelain.”

He continued kissing every inch of her, indeed still tasting strawberry in several places. He kissed all the way down to her curls, inhaling her scent mixed with his scent mixed with strawberries and sweetness, “Think I missed a spot.”


	116. The drink absolves our sins

**Sandor**

He knew this would be a bittersweet night for the little bird, and if he was being honest, with himself.

Despite her annoying habits, Sandor was glad to have the little wolf back, and despite his broodiness, he’d come to respect Jon Stark. But tomorrow they, along with hundreds of women, small children, and the old and infirm, would depart for Castle Black. Despite the alliance with Tywin Lannister, they were still outnumbered, and the lands of the North ranging from Moat Cailin to Last Hearth and from the Stoney Shore to the Grey Cliffs were soon to become battlegrounds. Nearly three hundred fighters – primarily Wildlings or men once sworn to the Night’s Watch – would be among them, though the plan, in case of attack, was not to fight but to flee. They would be well provisioned and clothed to survive north of the Wall indefinitely. A party of rangers had already hauled provisions to Craster’s Keep – an unoccupied homestead two days’ walk north of Castle Black – and at a large, hidden cave near the Fist of the First men that was once inhabited by a clan of Wildlings.

Tomorrow would mean farewell, but tonight Tyrion had – unsurprisingly – planned a send-off feast, sponsored at least partly by his father, as when Sansa and her group departed Moat Cailin after her talks with the Old Lion, he had gifted her five wagons’ worth of supplies. Sandor grumbled at his future king’s generosity with his little bird, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying more than his fair share of Arbor Gold and Sour Red. The North had superior mead, but the South had better wine, without question.

The mood was subdued until the wine and mead washed away the collective angst. Tyrion once again called for a game of _Never Have I Ever_ but insisted on new players to ‘make things interesting’. Jon and Arya begrudgingly joined, while Alysane Mormont and Thoros agreed readily.

Arya appeared to make it her mission to get her brother too drunk to sit atop a horse on the morrow, as she clearly singled him out.

“Never have I ever killed a white walker.”

…

“Never have I ever ridden a dragon.”

…

“Never have I ever had to walk back to the keep naked after bathing in the river because some washerwomen stole my clothes.”

Sandor chuckled at that, remembering the little bird sharing this story with him many moons ago. She too, giggled, “He wasn’t _naked_ Arya – he had some branches to cover his modesty.”

Alysane Mormont hooted, “Well then, the washerwomen at Winterfell are too kind… on Bear Island they’d have stolen your clothes then demanded a _favor_ before giving them back.”

Jon blushed deeply – a habit he shared with his eldest sister. Tyrion turned to Alysane with a smile, “How is that unkind?”

Sandor rolled his eyes, passing a glance at the little bird. Something was definitely going on between the she-bear and the little lion. The kiss in the dining hall was much talked about throughout the castle, but since then it was clear they enjoyed each other’s company, in general. Two rowdy, unabashed people who were fiercer than they looked – they made a good pair. Even Sandor had to admit Tyrion was tough to kill – surviving three battles now, two of which he was an active participant in. The she-bear seemed to respect that someone so small could be so robust.

Jon, apparently, had some retaliation ready, “Never have I ever faked a pox infection to get out of my lessons.”

Sansa leaned over to Sandor, “She was five years old and used berry stain. My mother was not fooled.”

When next it was Jon’s turn, he singled Tyrion out, “Never have I ever pissed off the side of the great wall.”

Tyrion raised his cup proudly before sipping deeply, laughing when Thoros did the same.

Thoros and Alysane were similarly ganging up on Tyrion, though he didn’t seem to mind.

After some time Sansa wanted to check in on Ser Addam, whose presence at Winterfell was still a secret. Sandor briefly wondered what excuse had been provided for his _absence_ from Casterly Rock, but knew the Old Lion was more than capable of thinking up a plausible lie.

They were surprised to find Jaime in Addam’s chambers. Addam explained that they were reminiscing about their youths in Casterly Rock. Jaime – who appeared to be well into his cups – added, “Yes, and Addam was interrogating me about my queen.”

Addam rolled his eyes, “I thought your brother was the one prone to exaggeration.”

“He only exaggerates about the duration and number of parties involved in his… _exploits.”_

Sandor laughed, “You’re forgetting about the size of his _sword_ , Lannister.”

“Ah, how could I forget!?”

Sansa took a seat on the settee across from Addam and Jaime, “So, Jaime – does Ser Addam now know all my dirty little secrets?”

“ _You_ have dirty little secrets? Don’t let Tyrion know, he’ll never stop pestering you! And no, as it happens, I was merely enumerating your many fine qualities. I believe I was at number five hundred and sixty-eight when you entered.”

Sansa batted her eyelids in exaggerated fashion, “Flattery will get you everywhere, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime chuckled, “Unfortunately when I told Addam that you have a voice as lovely as an autumn breeze he didn’t believe me… I hope you will corroborate my claim tonight.”

“Well Ser Addam is entitled to his opinion; after all, he heard me sing at Casterly Rock. Perhaps he likens it to a _summer thunderstorm_.”

Jaime smirked, “I reminded him of that. Apparently Addam was _otherwise engaged_ during your performance at the Rock.”

Addam’s cheeks reddened but his reaction only amused Sansa, who waved off his concern, “I am well aware that the threat of imminent demise can drive one to seek out carnal comforts.”

Sandor snorted, “Aye, imminent demise, imminent _survival_ … amazing how many things make men seek _that_.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and was about to speak when the door flew open. Tyrion and Thoros wobbled in. Tyrion’s eyes found Jaime, “I thought I’d find you here brother,” before falling on Sansa and Sandor. His head looked to be swaying on his neck when he addressed all of them, “If this is supposed to be an orgy, you need more _women.”_

Jaime shook his head, unaffected, “Did you barge into Ser Addam’s room to tell us the castle is under attack, or do you have a much less important and time-sensitive purpose?”

“Ah, did I not knock? Silly me… I’d come to gather you, brother, to search for our missing queen. It would seem, however, that mission was a success before it officially began.”

Sandor knew immediately what this was about, “She’s not drunk enough yet, Imp.”

Thoros produced two wineskins from behind his back, “We thought she’d say that.”

…

Within an hour, the crowd was calling for their queen’s melodies. A pair of traveling minstrels seemed to welcome the chance for a rest and refreshment.

Sansa looked wistful as she sat on a bench and strummed her cords almost lazily. The crowd grew silent and still, and Sansa began speaking as if to the night itself, “I wrote this while Theon and I were captives in our own home. I never thought I’d play it for anyone else, but now it seems wrong not to…” She inhaled and exhaled deeply through her nose, “Make no mistake, Theon Greyjoy died _here_ , not at Casterly Rock. It was atonement and loyalty that willed his body to keep going even when his heart and mind were broken. He saved me more times than I can tell you, but I could never save him. I couldn’t give him joy or peace… only the chance for redemption.”

With a deep breath, she began…

> _Faces all around me they don't smile they just crack  
>  Waiting for my ship to come but my ship’s not coming back  
> We do our time like coppers in a jar  
> What are we saving for?  
> What are we saving for?_
> 
> _There's a smell of stale fear that's reeking from our skins  
>  The drinking never stops because the drink absolves our sins  
> We sit and grow our roots into the floor  
> What are we waiting for?  
> What are we waiting for?_
> 
> _So give me something to believe  
>  'Cause I am living just to breathe  
> And I need something more  
> To keep on breathing for  
> So give me something to believe_
> 
> _Something's always coming you can hear it in the ground  
>  It swells into the air with a rising, rising sound  
> And never comes but shakes the boards and rattles all the doors  
> What are we waiting for?  
> What are we waiting for?_
> 
> _So give me something to believe  
>  'Cause I am living just to breathe  
> And I need something more  
> To keep on breathing for  
> So give me something to believe_
> 
> _I am hiding from some beast  
>  But the beast was always here  
> Watching without eyes  
> Because the beast is just my fear  
> _ _That I am just nothing  
>  That’s just what I've become  
> What am I waiting for?  
> I'm already gone_

Sandor couldn’t help but sympathize. His entire life until he came into the little bird’s service had been a waste. Eating, breathing, drinking, shitting, fucking, killing. He harbored only anger; all other emotions he drowned with wine. He lived without purpose, without happiness. Or rather, not a true purpose. He convinced himself his purpose was to kill his brother, but he’d had a few opportunities over the years, most recently during the Hand’s Tourney for Eddard Stark, that he never capitalized on.

Sandor thought back to that day. He could remember Sansa Stark’s cheerful, innocent face smiling at him after he stopped his brother from killing Ser Loras Tyrell, the fucking fairy. He remembered how harshly he’d spoken to her the previous evening while telling her how he came to have his scars. He wanted to make her afraid, to make her run away from him, to prove that she was just another empty-headed girl incapable of seeing anything that wasn’t skin-deep. But she didn’t. She touched his shoulder as a mother might a child and told him that Gregor was no true knight.

So when the next day came and he had the opportunity to cut Gregor down, he shouldn’t have cared about the consequences – shouldn’t have cared whether the king would throw him in the Black Cells or even take his ugly head. He should have ended the rabid beast that was his brother, but instead he found himself kneeling upon the king’s command, leaving himself defenseless to Gregor’s wrath. And he did it because for the first time since his face was held in the brazier, he wondered what it would feel like to be a true knight, even if only to have the admiration of a fair maiden.

He smiled to himself then, catching Sansa just as she was telling her audience that the next song was about no one in particular but any man who’s ever been softened by a woman’s love, though she said it with poorly masked humor.

> _Well in the town of Acorn Hill they got a man they call Big Bad Bill  
> _ _I want to tell you, he sure was tough, and he certainly did strut his stuff  
> _ _Well he had folks all scared to death, when he walked by, they held their breath  
> _ _He was a fighting man, sure enough  
> _ _But now Bill took himself a wife, and he leads a different life, ‘cause_
> 
> _B_ _ig Bad Bill is Sweet William now  
> _ _Married life has changed him some how  
> _ _Well he's the man that they all used to fear  
> _ _But now the people call him sweet papa Willie dear  
> _ _Stronger than Arthur, I declare  
> _ _'Til a fair-skinned mama bobbed his hair_
> 
> _B_ _ig Bad Bill don't fight any more  
> _ _Well he washes the dishes and he sweeps up the floor  
> _ _Well he used to spend his evenings lookin' for a fight  
> _ _But now he's got to see his mama every night  
> _ _Yeah Big Bad Bill is Sweet William now_

More than a few sets of eyes found Sandor, and he couldn’t care less. She’d made him the butt of a good-natured joke, but she’d make it up to him later, of that he was sure. Without seeing her approach he found the little wolf standing to his right, “Hello, sweet papa _Hound_ …”

He grumbled, “Hello, _princess.”_

“Ugh,” she spat while walking away.

Sandor’s attention was pulled back to Sansa who was being prodded by Tyrion and Thoros for more songs – no surprise there.

**Addam**

Addam listened to the young queen’s songs, which echoed through the courtyard and into the balcony doors of his room in the family keep. He remained out of sight under cover of darkness. It was clear that Sansa and Jaime, in particular, were concerned about him being cooped up all these weeks. Their intentions were good, but anyone who’d seen as many wars as he knew boredom for what it really was – _a luxury._

Though tonight he was tempted to sneak out to the festivities. The sounds of laughter, friendly ribbing, and song drifted up. The last time he’d heard such merriment was at the feast before the Dragon Queen’s attack. Tywin Lannister found such celebrations to be wasteful and without purpose, and generally did without. Addam respected his lord for many reasons – there were sides and depths to him that few people ever saw – yet he could indeed find fault with Tywin’s inability to _enjoy_ anything. Addam chuckled to himself remembering the food fight that recently occurred in the queen’s chambers. He could not in any honesty admit to ever having seen Ser Jaime and Lord Tyrion so carefree and happy.

Addam entertained these musings during a pause in the music, but his ears pricked up when he heard Sansa’s voice once again. From his position he could hear what was said.

_“This song was inspired by my once-goodsister and almost-goodmother. The woman who first taught me that cruelty is not a trait unique to men. If nothing else, I envy Cersei Lannister’s ability to sleep at night.”_

The crowd howled briefly before quieting again, clearly as eager to hear the song as Addam was.

> _Will you see the signs?  
>  When every one of them is giving up or giving in, tell me  
> In this house of mine  
> Nothing ever comes without a consequence or cost, tell me  
> Will the stars align?  
> Will heavens step in? Will it save us from your sins? Will it?  
> 'Cause this house of mine stands strong_
> 
> _That's the price you pay  
>  To leave behind your heart, now cast away  
> Just another tyrant in the way  
> Proud to be the hunter not the prey  
> And you're standing on the edge, head high 'cause you're a_
> 
> _Natural  
>  A beating heart of stone  
> You gotta be so cold  
> To make it in this world  
> Yeah, you're a natural  
> Living your life cutthroat  
> You gotta be so cold  
> Yeah, you're a natural_
> 
> _Will somebody  
>  Let me see the light within the dark trees' shadow and  
> What's happenin'?  
> Lookin' through the glass find the wrong within the past knowin'  
> We’re the future  
> Cut until it bleeds, inside a world without peace facing  
> A bit of the truth, the truth_
> 
> _That's the price you pay  
>  To leave behind your heart, now cast away  
> Just another tyrant in the way  
> Proud to be the hunter not the prey  
> And you're standing on the edge, head high 'cause you're a_
> 
> _Natural  
>  A beating heart of stone  
> You gotta be so cold  
> To make it in this world  
> Yeah, you're a natural  
> Living your life cutthroat  
> You gotta be so cold  
> Yeah, you're a natural_
> 
> _Deep inside me, I'm fading to black, I'm fading  
>  Took an oath by the blood of my hand, won't break it  
> I can taste it, the end is upon us, I swear  
> We’re gonna make it  
> We’re gonna make it_
> 
> _Cause you’re a natural  
>  A beating heart of stone  
> You gotta be so cold  
> To make it in this world  
> Yeah, you're a natural  
> Living your life cutthroat  
> You gotta be so cold  
> Yeah, you're a natural_

  
Addam found himself smiling. It was a war rally if ever he’d heard one, and by the reaction of those outside he knew they were equally inspired.

Long minutes, perhaps an hour, passed by with no more song though the sounds of merriment continued. Addam leaned back against the wall and for the first time since they battled the Dragon Queen, allowed himself to harbor some hope… not simply hope that the North would prevail, but that for the first time in his lifetime the realm would find itself with a worthy king and queen.

Despite the boisterous activities outside, Addam must have dozed off – unsure of how much time was past. The queen’s somber voice lulled him back to consciousness…

> _Hey, I ain't never coming home  
>  Hey, I'll just wander my own road  
> Hey, I can't meet you there tomorrow  
> Don’t search for me, don't follow  
> Misery so hollow_
> 
> _Hey you, you're livin' for that bottle  
>  Hey you, so tired of being throttled  
> Hey you, you can't shake me round now  
> I get so lost and don't know how  
> And it hurts to care, so I won't now_
> 
> _Lost my family forgot my self  
>  Things I've done and things I've seen  
> Sleep in sweat the mirrors cold  
> See my face it's growin' old  
> Not scared to death no reason why  
> I do the things I do to survive  
> Think about the things I've said  
> Rip the page it's cold and dead_
> 
> _So take me home  
>  Yeah, take me home  
> Take me home  
> Take me home, yeah  
> Take me home_
> 
> _…_
> 
> _Say goodbye, don't follow_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My song obsession with this fic is out of control. 
> 
> Song credits:   
> Believe, The Bravery  
> Big Bad Bill, Milton Ager & Jack Yellen (I love the Ry Cooder version)  
> Natural, Imagine Dragons  
> Don't Follow, Alice in Chains
> 
> As always, I tweaked lyrics to make fit in this universe and Sansa's brain.
> 
> P.S. the below excerpt from "Believe" might be some of my favorite song lyrics of all time: 
> 
> I am hiding from some beast  
> But the beast was always here  
> Watching without eyes  
> Because the beast is just my fear


	117. Our house

**Sansa**

Sansa stood atop the northern battlements long after the horses and wagons disappeared from view. She felt frozen to the spot. She wanted to run after them but to what end she did not know. Another parting hug for Arya? Another kiss on the forehead from Jon? Or maybe she would just join them and live north of the Wall… leave her people to deal with Cersei and Euron.

She sighed, simultaneously disheartened by the world’s injustice and her own selfishness.

There would be no war council today – in truth, they were as prepared as they could be, and meetings were mainly needed when they received news from Yara, Shireen, or Tywin. They were now entering the waiting period, at least for those who were in command – the knights, soldiers, and recruits trained ceaselessly, led by Brienne and Sandor and a number of knights and senior guards from Winterfell. Soon, the houses to the west of the Kingsroad would join the central forces at Winterfell and the Dreadfort, also sending part of their armies to the eastern coastal towns expected to soon be under attack from the Ironborn. Yara and Shireen were ready to defend as best they could against the larger fleet. Shireen’s warships were already at White Harbor. Yara’s were en route to White Harbor and the other eastern ports, though taking a wide berth to avoid encountering any of Euron’s vessels that were still – based on Tywin’s reports – at King’s Landing.

As Sansa made her way to her solar with Thoros and Brant behind her, she couldn’t help but think about her parting words with Jon and Arya earlier this morning. She stressed to them (for the hundredth time) the importance of they and their people’s survival at Castle Black. No matter what the coming weeks or months entailed, she would take comfort in knowing they were safe.

When she entered, Tyrion was already there. As the King or Queen in the North didn’t traditionally have a hand, there was no Hand’s Solar. Moreover, Sansa and Tyrion enjoyed working in the same space – it saved them from having to walk to the other’s chambers every time one of them had a question or needed counsel.

Sansa greeted him with a smile that felt forced, “Any ravens?”

“No; it seems all is still going according to plan. Wine?”

“No thank you, I had enough last night…”

“‘ _Enough wine_ ’… I’m not familiar with this concept,” Tyrion smirked.

Sansa sat not at her desk but on her settee. Tyrion joined her on the opposite chair, “You look troubled, Sansa. Anything in particular?”

“You mean beyond the looming war? No. It’s just…” Sansa struggled to articulate the thoughts that had been plaguing her these several weeks. With a sigh she continued, “This alliance with your father, I don’t second-guess it – it’s needed to save the North, but…”

“But you’re worried about what comes after the war?”

Sansa nodded; Tyrion had an uncanny ability to read her thoughts. With a sigh, she continued, “Our goal is to have peace and unity in the realm, but what if it’s simply not possible? What if mankind – and womankind, for that matter – are simply predisposed to the desire for conquest, prone to violence, prone to hate or resent those who choose a different way of life?”

Tyrion nodded, “You are young Sansa; you were raised on tales of Robert’s Rebellion, which ended just before your birth. Since then you’ve seen more than your fair share of war – a war that started shortly after you traveled to King’s Landing and that persists to this day. It’s the same war, just new players. I can see how it might be easy to feel that the realm has never been at peace. But before the Targaryens came to power with their fire-breathing beasts, the realm had more years of peace than conflict.”

“So we can blame the Targaryens for all our woes?” Sansa asked, half facetiously.

Tyrion looked rather contemplative, “Well, let’s see. Let’s think about all that happened after the Targaryens came to power... After Aegon’s conquest and the creation of the Iron Throne, there continued to be rebellions. Not surprisingly, many of the great families of Westeros didn’t like having been forced to submit to a foreign ruler. Your own bloodline dates back eight thousand years, as you know… the Targaryens came from Essos recently, in the grand scheme of things, intent not just to escape the Doom of Valyria, but to rule over all of Westeros.”

Sansa nodded, she knew these history lessons, but hadn’t had much time to ponder them of late. Tyrion continued, “Then there was the First Dornish War, then the Faith Militant Uprising, in addition to the ongoing rebellions throughout the realm.” Tyrion paused, seemingly turning over some idea in his mind, “I should point out it wasn’t merely the Targaryen’s reign but that they were known for being cruel and unyielding. To them, everyone who wasn’t a Targaryen was simply a subject to lord over… or dragon food.”

“Are you suggesting that a respected family of Westeros could have united the realm _without_ the bloodshed?”

Tyrion snorted, “You know, I’ve honestly never thought about that.” Tyrion began pacing the room, something he did when deep in thought, “Let’s look at your own Stark ancestors, descended of the First Men… they were well-respected; they were not warmongers. They believed in honor above all else. If they had tried to create a central ruling body – to install a King or Queen to preside over all seven kingdoms – do you think it would have worked?”

Sansa thought about it and ultimately shook her head, “No. We were too different from other kingdoms. Dorne with their more liberal culture, their inheritance laws… even their climate, food, music, and art are quite different. The Ironborn would never kneel to anyone, sticking with their tradition of pillage. The West has its great wealth; no doubt they’d prefer to hoard it for themselves than to pay taxes to the Crown. I suppose the Reach and Stormlands could unite, and of course the lands now owned by the Crown. The Riverlands and Vale have more in common with the North even if they don’t share our worship of the Old Gods. So I could see _some_ of the Kingdoms uniting, but not _all_ of them… but to what purpose? As long as trade is healthy, and visitors abide by the laws of the land they travel to, I imagine peace would be more easily achieved amongst independent kingdoms than united kingdoms.”

Tyrion was smiling at her, “I happen to agree with you, my wise young queen.”

Sansa shook her head, “And I’ve just agreed to sit the accursed Iron Throne. Alongside your father, no less. What a benevolent queen I shall make – giving the people the unity they never wanted.”

Tyrion moved to sit next to her, patting her hand, “What they want _is_ a benevolent queen. You can unite the realm under common and just causes, and allow each kingdom its independence in other regards, so long as their independence doesn’t mean attacking one another.”

“And how do I do that with Dorne? With the Reach? How do I allow them to retain some of their culture when so much of their population has been eradicated? You know families from the Westerlands and Stormlands will be ready to gobble up their land. There will be battles over the more fertile lands. I’m tired of battles.”

“Don’t give them the opportunity. Award the lands to those loyal to you, loyal to your allies. Ser Marbrand comes to mind. Podrick Payne. Perhaps even someone like Jorah Mormont who abandoned the Dragon Queen when her madness was revealed.”

“Then the people I _don’t_ award lands and lordships to will resent me. They’ll think less of me than they do Cersei.”

“That’s why some of those appointments must be made to people who have not yet proven their loyalty to you.”

Sansa arched a brow, “ _Buy_ their loyalty?”

“That’s politics, Sansa. That’s being a queen. You’ve been a wartime queen, and a damned fine one. And you’re not done with that yet. But when it’s all over, we’ll need our peacetime queen.”

“What of your father? Is he better at politics or war?”

Tyrion seriously considered her question, “Both, though more the latter. He is a man feared, not a man loved. But he’s smart enough to know _both_ are necessary for a reign to last, hence the woman he’s chosen to be by his side.”

Sansa couldn’t help but chuckle.

“What’s so funny, Sansa?”

“Not funny – sad, really. I’ve been praying for peace, craving it with every fiber of my being… and yet, I suddenly feel rather terrified about the difficult decisions I’ll need to make during peace time… and if any of those decisions will lead to unrest, or even war. I won’t be able to blame Joffrey or Cersei or Daenerys then…”

Tyrion patted her leg as he stood, “Well, I’d say you could leave that to me while you spend all day drinking and fucking, but then _I_ wouldn’t have any time for drinking and fucking.”

Sansa laughed, “Then perhaps I should make Brienne my Hand, since she does little of either.”

Tyrion scrunched his face, “I think she’s warming up to one of those things thanks to my brother, and the other, thanks to your Hound.”

“Oh dear, I hope she won’t be outdoing _you_ anytime soon.”

“I suspect she already is!”

Sansa eyed him skeptically, “So you and Alysane…?” She then saw something she never thought she’d see – a blush on Tyrion Lannister’s cheeks.

“I don’t want to kiss and tell…”

“Why not? Your she-bear would.”

“Indeed. And the old Tyrion would, as well. But the old Tyrion had whores, not respectable ladies.”

Sansa picked the wrong moment to sip from her glass of water, for she promptly choked on it, “Tyrion – Don’t ever call Alysane ‘respectable’ or ‘a lady’… I fear for your safety…”

Tyrion snorted, “I appreciate the warning. But do you disagree with my assessment?”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, “Alysane is fierce, she is strong, but she is not cruel. She doesn’t let other people put her down, but nor does she go out of her way to put others down. I rather admire her confidence… not to mention her skills with an axe.”

Tyrion smiled, and Sansa recognized it as the indication of a man reluctantly falling in love.

**Sandor**

It was late afternoon when Sandor was finishing up his training for the day. He wanted nothing more than a hot bath and a hearty meal. He quickly attended to the former before making his way to the dining hall for the latter. He was surprised when Sansa approached him, offering no greeting before whispering in his ear, “Care for a ride?”

He nodded, and she was gone. They’d done this twice since Sandor first brought Sansa to the cottage. Leaving after the evening meal, only letting Tyrion and Sansa’s guards know, spending the night at the little cottage, and waking with the dawn to return to the castle. It wasn’t that they couldn’t be alone together in her chambers (though they tried not to let their relationship be known to Ser Addam), but something happened when they entered the quaint home – the place that belonged to them and no one else. They stopped thinking about the war. They didn’t think about all the tragedy that had befallen them over the years. They weren’t the Queen in the North and her sworn shield. They were man and woman, Sandor and Sansa.

They did nothing differently than they’d do in her chambers at Winterfell. They sipped wine, made love, read to one another… Sansa might sing or embroider while Sandor sharpened his sword or whittled a piece of wood. But it was only in seeing Sansa at the cottage that Sandor realized how much she was haunted at Winterfell. He supposed the place was nothing but ghosts and bad memories for her now. Within the walls of the castle she was engulfed by reminders of all those that should be there but weren’t – her parents, brothers, her wolf, her childhood friends, the men and women who’d served her family loyally… _her son…_

Frankly, Sandor might never have noticed how tormented she was if he’d never brought her to the cottage. Here she almost reminded him of the little bird he knew in King’s Landing (though now she could look in his eyes, and never said things out of courtesy alone).

This night she seemed pensive but in a hopeful way. He didn’t ask to know her thoughts, only enjoyed the way she fluttered around the cottage like a hummingbird.

Sandor himself felt equally unburdened. He never carried the weight of the world’s problems on his shoulders like Sansa did, but he was certainly not immune to worry. However, his fears all seemed to lessen and sometimes even disappear within the four walls of this modest but love-filled home. Each passing day brought them closer to battle, and he’d never cared for waiting. He’d heard the battle plans and could find no fault in them, but still something did not feel right. He attributed his unease with Cersei’s unpredictable nature – like putting a bounty on Sansa’s head just before the battle with the Dragon Queen commenced. Further, he knew little of this Euron Greyjoy and his men, other than that they were widely known to be barbaric and cruel. Would they be as formidable as the Dothraki were? He couldn’t imagine that – the Ironborn legacy was to raid and rape and pillage. They were accustomed to fighting peasants wielding crude and improvised weapons.

Cersei’s sellswords on the other hand would be quite capable, having literally made a living out of swordplay.

Despite starting out with an empty mind this night, he laid with the little bird in his arms, now fast asleep, and once again evaluated the war plan from all angles…

Sansa would receive word once Euron Greyjoy’s fleet left King’s Landing. It could be any day now. Then they’d have a couple weeks before the eastern ports were attacked. At the same time, Tywin Lannister’s fleet would sail north under the pretext of attacking the western ports but would instead make landfall and move east across the land – but only after the battle at Moat Cailin had started. Cersei’s full sellsword army would travel by the Kingsroad to the Moat, with most of Tywin Lannister and Edmure Tully’s army falling in behind hers, again under the pretext of joining their forces. Instead, they would attack Cersei’s army from the rear while it fought its way through the Moat. Meanwhile, Ser Bryan would lead his army of knights southwest to the Kingsroad and march on the capital, with some of Tywin’s host joining them once enough damage was done at the Moat. Ser Bryan would also sail his modest fleet to the capital to take Blackwater Bay to defend in case any of Euron or Cersei’s fleet returned.

The eastern ports would hold as long as possible, but it would be shocking if they could hold back the Ironborn longer than a couple days. The Ironborn would move inland from the coast, likely trying to sack Karhold, the Dreadfort, and, of course, Winterfell. There was no doubt that whatever was left of Cersei and Euron’s army would make their way to the seat of the North, for that was where Sansa would be. Tywin’s forces from the west and south would converge at Winterfell and join with the Northern army to defend Winterfell as long as possible – though hopefully it would not be more than a few weeks until the throne was captured by the Vale and Lannister armies.

There were two main alternatives the war council considered. One was that the Ironborn would throw their full force at _one_ target – likely Ramsgate. This would allow them to plow through the meager northern resistance and march straight for Winterfell without delay. Though it conflicted with the reports that Tywin and Tyrion’s spies were providing – that the Ironborn would attack all eastern coast towns simultaneously – it was what Sandor would have done, not that he knew much about maritime warfare. Then again, they’d still need a good ten days to get to Winterfell from Ramsgate, and in that time the Northern forces from Whiteharbor, Oldcastle, and Hornwood could intercept them, forcing them into an open field battle, which was not the Ironborn’s strength.

The other possibility was that Cersei and Euron’s army wouldn’t work toward Winterfell with haste, but would take the smaller castles at Cerwyn, Hornwood, Torrhen’s Square, and Barrowtown – then later the northern castles at Deepwoode Motte, Last Hearth, and Karhold. They could avoid the more challenging sieges of Winterfell and the Dreadfort entirely, using their larger numbers to claim 80% of the North in the hopes that Sansa would surrender. This of course would spread their forces thin, but they certainly had the numbers to compensate, particularly with Cersei still believing her father and the Tullys were on her side.

The fact that Cersei would be in for a rude awakening once her father’s army revealed its true allegiance was another factor that added to the uncertainty of the situation. Would her army turn back from the Moat to engage the Lannister/Tully army fully? And if they did so triumphantly, would they return to the capital to defend the throne, leaving Euron’s raiders to wreak havoc on as much of the North as possible while Cersei’s commanders regrouped to devise a new strategy?

His restlessness must have been manifesting physically for Sansa woke and turned to face him. He met her eyes without turning his head. As she tiptoed her fingers across his belly, he couldn’t resist smiling, “Stop tickling, girl.”

“Not tickling, remember? Belly rub for my hound.”

Before she had time to react Sandor pulled her hand to his mouth and bit playfully on the offending fingers.

“Ouch!”

“You poke at a hound like that, you’re going to get BIT… Oww!” While he was teasing, she sank her teeth into his shoulder.

“Apologies, my lady, I forgot I was in the company of a wolf.”

Now Sansa was kissing the skin where her teeth had just grazed, “Mmm… a woman might start a war over these shoulders,” she emphasized her point with a gentle nip at the meaty flesh where arm met shoulder, before kissing the place again.

“A man might start a war over those lips, even with the sharp teeth behind them,” Sandor chomped his teeth.

Sansa giggled, much like the tinkling of bells, “I think if we are ever stranded on a desert island and I must eat you to survive, I will eat your shoulders first.”

“Not my cock?”

She laughed, “No… I’ll save the best for last.”

“You _are_ going to kill me first before you start carving off chunks of me, aren’t you?”

Sansa spoke with mock indignation, “Of course, I have _some_ manners, you know.”

“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten, since a few nights ago you catapulted some strawberry pie at my head.”

“Hah! I seem to recall you _enjoyed_ that night, manners or no,” Sansa wiggled her brows.

“I won’t deny it,” he pulled her close, “best tell the Cook not to serve strawberry pie during a feast… I’d hate to have to ravish you in front of dozens of honored guests.”

“Would you really hate that?” she arched a brow.

His answer was a kiss planted on the tender skin below her breast, “What do you think?”


	118. Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter but, as always, I hope you enjoy and thanks for sticking with me this far. If anyone is still reading, that is. lol.

**Jaime**

Something wasn’t right…

Three weeks ago they’d received a warning that Euron’s fleet had departed Blackwater Bay heading north, yet none of the harbors reported any sight of them. They were staying far out to sea, and no one knew why.

Addam stared at the map during the war council, “Perhaps they’ve changed their strategy and will attack once the ground forces reach the Moat. It’s what Lord Lannister had tried to petition Cersei to do, to reduce the time your ports and castles would have to hold them off without Lannister aid.”

Jaime shook his head, “Perhaps, but if they’d done this, why would my father not have been told? If he knows, he would find a way to tell us, that’s for certain.”

The waiting and uncertainty had them all on edge. Lord Glover was the first to let it break his confidence, “Unless your _father_ has betrayed us…”

“And why the elaborate ruse around a war alliance, a marriage, hmm? With my father on Cersei’s side we wouldn’t even stand a chance, he needn’t have exposed himself to risk by meeting with Lady Sansa at the Moat.”

Glover shook his head but said no more.

Sandor spoke, “They’ve got something up their sleeve. A trick or trap that only Cersei and Euron know, most likely, so that we’d never hear word of it.”

“Like what?” Tyrion asked.

Sandor peered at the map, “We’re sure they haven’t made landfall somewhere in secret? It needn’t be a port, could be along the shoreline of the forest between Karhold and the Dreadfort, perhaps.”

“No,” Jaime insisted, “Lady Umber, Tormund, Lady Hornwood, and Lord Manderly all have scouts along the coast. Such a large fleet and host could not go undetected for more than a few hours. If they’ve made landfall anywhere from Moat Cailin up to The Gift, we’d know about it.”

Sansa’s face paled, and almost instantly Jaime knew what she was going to say, “And if they’d landed north of the gift…?”

“Your brother has scouts; they would see the Ironborn coming toward Castle Black and have time to flea north of the Wall. They are prepared for that.”

Ser Addam stared at the map, “There is no tactical advantage to claiming Castle Black. What would Cersei or Euron want with it?”

Sansa shook her head slowly, “Not what… _who…”_

Jaime narrowed his eyes and repeated his previous comment, “The scouts will see them coming. They have a good vantage point from the top of the wall. They’re staying out at sea.”

Sansa stared at the map, fingers laced and pressed against her chin, “What benefit would Euron have in staying out at sea? Cersei and Euron are both arrogant, they both like to instill fear in their enemies. They would want us to know they’re coming. They’d want to put fear in the hearts of our men. They think they outnumber us by a very wide margin… they do not need the element of surprise.”

Alysane nodded, “Our queen is right, that isn’t the Ironborn way. Moreover, they have many men to feed on those ships. Why stay out at sea longer than is needed? If they intended to synchronize their sea and land attacks, they could have simply waited for Cersei’s sellswords to be on the march.”

Sandor leaned over the map, “Ser Jaime’s right that the Wall gives your brother a perfect vantage point, with one exception,” he pointed at the Haunted Forest with a calloused finger. “These woods are dense, I recall. If the Ironborn made landfall further north, they could then march south through the forest undetected.”

Jaime leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, “But why would they send their entire fleet there? If they have knowledge of who we sent to Castle Black they will know it would only take a thousand men, if that, to siege it.”

Sansa shook her head, “Castle Black _cannot_ be sacked from the North; the Free Folk have tried to do it for centuries with only rare and minimal success.”

Alysane nodded, “And if they try to cross at Eastwatch where the Night King felled the wall, the scouts will see them in time to warn our people to flee.”

Sandor snorted, “That’s what they want…”

Sansa’s head snapped up, “What?”

Sandor spoke with a speed that was unusual for him, “It’s an ambush – a trap! Send a raven to Castle Black immediately. Part of the Ironborn will attack south of the Wall to drive our people north, as we planned.”

Jaime sat forward and continued his thought, “Where the rest of the Ironborn will be waiting, hidden amongst the woods.”

Sansa was already running out of the room, Tyrion on her heels, before Jaime had finished speaking. She was going to send a raven, but it would be too late.

Jaime sat down heavily, all strength leaving his legs, “All the reports about them laying siege to our entire coast… it was all a diversion. Or perhaps it didn’t start that way, but they must have learned of our plan to send our people to Castle Black to shelter. If Cersei found out that Arya and Jon were sent there…”

Sandor growled, “She means to tempt Sansa into leaving Winterfell and marching on Castle Black to save her siblings.”

Jaime shrugged, “Or simply capture her siblings and demand Sansa bend the knee in exchange for their lives.” He ran a hand through his hair, “I should have fucking seen this coming. I know Cersei better than I know myself. She finds a person’s weakness and uses it against them.”

Ser Addam nodded, “And Lady Sansa’s weakness is her family – her pack.”

Lord Glover looked between the three men, “What if we’re wrong? This is all just a guess, is it not? Perhaps the Ironborn are out to sea, waiting for some signal to begin the attack.”

Addam sighed, “It could be both. They could make us believe the coast is safe so that we pull our forces inland… they have the numbers to take Castle Black _and_ attack the coast…”

Sandor’s voice was low when he spoke again, “If it’s meant to draw us north, the Ironborn will let us know about their presence at Castle Black.”

Glover shook his head, “We cannot abandon Winterfell. The castle walls and weapons are our greatest protection. Same goes for the Dreadfort and Last Hearth. We cannot fall for a trap.”

A silence descended as each man thought about the possibilities and potential courses of action. Several minutes passed this way before the door opened, all eyes snapping up at once.

Sansa and Tyrion returned, and the faces they bore made Jaime’s stomach clench. They walked stiffly to the table, a queer look in Tyrion’s eyes, and a quiet fury in Sansa’s. They said not a word, and no one spoke for minutes. Eventually Lord Glover summoned the courage to address his queen, “Did you send the raven, my lady?”

Sansa shook her head almost imperceptibly. She extended her arm and Jaime could see she clenched something tightly in the palm of her right hand, which was trembling. It seemed to take considerable effort for her to uncoil her pale fingers, and when she did everyone gasped in unison. Laying in the palm of her hand was a man’s pinky finger with a curl of midnight black hair tied around it.

No one dared speak or move until Sansa issued a command, “Leave.”

As her word sunk in, each member of the council began to file out. Sansa’s head snapped to Jaime as he moved to leave. She pinned him with a look he’d never seen on her face. Everyone left, even Sandor and Tyrion, until only Jaime and Sansa remained. He was wilting under her gaze and it was more painful than when he lost his sword hand. Without moving her lips he understood all she was thinking, and it brought him nothing but shame.

_This is Cersei’s doing…_

_Your sister…_

_Your lover…_

_The woman you pushed my brother out a window for…_

He could offer no defense; what he and Cersei shared was something he could never explain. He looked back on himself then and saw a weak-willed fool. Cersei wanted his cock and his sword. He was a weapon she could wield. Perhaps she loved him once when they were very young, but… _No. Cersei never loved anyone but herself._ And even if she had loved him, it didn’t excuse all the things she’d done – all the things she would still do before this war was through.

Sansa had forgiven Jaime a long time ago, and more easily than he deserved, but he knew now the thought of what Cersei had planned for Jon, and possibly Arya, was bringing fresh hate to Sansa’s mind, and Jaime was the closest thing she had to the real target of her ire.

Jaime could only swallow with a dry throat. He hoped that Sansa would just end this. Dagger to the heart just like he’d taught her. No one would miss him, save Tyrion and Brienne, but they would forgive their queen anything.

Jaime closed his eyes, and if it made him a coward, so be it. He knew realistically that Sansa wasn’t going to strike him down, but he couldn’t take another moment of seeing that look in her eyes. Her eyes that had been at times warm and comforting, at other times cold and vacant, were burning with an intensity he thought was unique to the Targaryens. And Cersei…

When words finally came, they were delivered calmly, though rage was bubbling in her throat, “When I kill your sister, Ser Jaime, it will not be swift. It will not be merciful. Whatever pain she or the Ironborn inflict on my brother, and my sister if they have her, Cersei will reap ten times over. What Cersei had done to me will be done to her, ten times over. Only then will I grant her death. And if you try to stop me or stand in my way, I’ll kill you.”

When he opened his eyes she was already walking toward the door, anger propelling every step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to post. The closer I get to the end of the story, the more critical it is to get all the pieces lined up properly.
> 
> Though Sansa has alluded to Sandor to knowing all the horrible deeds Jaime has ever done, I chose to never directly cover the conversation in which Jaime confessed to pushing Bran. I've always imagined it happening shortly after Brienne and Jaime found Sansa and Theon and helped them get to Castle Black. I imagine that once Jaime safely delivered Sansa to Jon he would have confessed it, putting his fate in her hands. She could either forgive him or have Jon execute him, and Jaime wouldn't put up a fight. By proving he only wanted to help Sansa, and then by laying himself bare for her judgment, he'd have earned her forgiveness.


	119. Crazy Eye

**Arya**

Arya woke each morning with anger coursing through her blood. It was the same each night when exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep, and every minute of the day in between. Even her companion, her brother’s white wolf, seemed to share her fury – she saw it reflected in his red eyes. Though they had no means to communicate she knew that he understood… that he shared her thirst for blood and vengeance. They trudged through the muddy woods west of the Kingsroad, keeping out of sight.

Ghost hunted for both of them, leaving Arya nothing to distract her mind from her fantasies of all the ways she would hurt any Ironborn she could get her hands on. If she had to spend the rest of her life doing it, she would see them all put down like the rabid animals they were.

She tried not to close her eyes, for every time she did, she saw her brother’s face as he yanked her out of her small cot at Castle Black, throwing furs at her while he spoke, _“The Ironborn are coming. Two thousand men march from the southeast. They will be here before the dawn. Take Ghost with you now and get to the gate, others are already there. I have to make sure no one gets left behind. I will meet you at Craster’s as planned. Be safe, Arya, and don’t do anything stupid.”_

With a kiss to her forehead he had left her room. She put on her sword belt, checking to make sure her daggers and sword were secure, then picked up her bow and arrow. Ghost at her side she descended the stairs that led out to the central yard where she found a frenzy of men, women, and children gathering their belongings and heading toward the gate at the Wall. The soldiers and rangers were scurrying back and forth, seeing to various tasks and trying to bring order to the chaos. Despite their thorough planning and preparation, panic could not be quelled as undoubtedly every person worried about the journey to Craster’s, and what would come after. No doubt they wondered how long they would hide there before it was safe to return home. Some probably thought it might be a matter of _if_ , not _when._

Arya had begun making her way to the gate, but her feet suddenly defied her commands. It felt wrong to flee. She was a wolf, a silent hunter. She was not meant to cower and hide, but to fight.

In the mayhem all around no one had noticed when she turned and headed to the south gate instead, slipping out easily with her fur hood pulled up over her head. If anyone noticed the direwolf at her side they were too busy to think or do anything about it. Arya had learned during her time alone, fending for herself, that people saw what they expected to see. No one expected any of the temporary residents of Castle Black to go _south_ – toward the Ironborn, toward the battle that would soon be waged at Winterfell, if not already underway. If anyone saw the short human and tall wolf slip into the woods southwest of Castle Black, they did nothing to stop them.

Jon and the others would be safe north of the wall, of that she had had no doubt. But she didn’t want to be safe. She wanted to fight for her home, for her sister, for the Stark name. Sansa would forgive her, and if she didn’t Arya would just have to prove she’d made the right choice by showing her sister just how many of the squids and sellswords she could single-handedly kill.

But on the third day of her journey, she realized she wasn’t the only one heading south. When she ventured slowly back toward the Kingsroad, deciding she had put enough distance between herself and Castle Black, she found a sight her eyes could not believe. The Ironborn were marching south along the road, thousands of them. She hid out of sight in a deer thicket and watched the entire procession move toward her. When she could make out the men at the head of the party, she had to cover her mouth to muffle a sob. Tied at the wrists, Jon was being pulled along by a length of rope. The man holding the rope wore an eye patch and a smirk.

_Euron Greyjoy… Crow’s Eye._

She could easily kill the man from here with an arrow. She’d aim for his good eye, which looked too cocky by half. But that wouldn’t save Jon, and it would likely get her captured or killed, and Ghost would die defending her.

She waited until the entire procession had passed before moving from her spot. Once again, she headed deeper into the woods but traveled at the pace of the Ironborn. She would wait until nightfall and look for a way to get to Jon. She had nearly a month until they reached Winterfell, and that gave her plenty of opportunity. They might hurt Jon, but they wouldn’t kill him. No – they intended to use him as leverage to force Sansa to surrender. If Arya could get to Jon, it would take away Euron’s leverage.

Each of the next three days and nights she scouted the war host. She observed how they moved, how they set up camp. She observed their perimeter, the guard posts. She made sure to always follow Euron with her eyes to see where his tent was. It seemed Euron insisted on keeping Jon close – each night he was roughly thrown into a small tent with six guards surrounding it. Arya and Ghost could easily take out six guards, but the tent was near other tents. If one of the guards managed to yell for help before he was killed, or if his body made any sound when it hit the ground, Arya and Ghost would be surrounded by likely dozens of Ironborn.

Each night at some point Euron went in Jon’s tent. Arya tried not to think that he might be torturing Jon to extract information about the Northern armies. If Jon told them about the alliance with Tywin Lannister, they’d lose the element of surprise. When this happened, Arya walked deeper into the woods with Ghost. She couldn’t listen to Jon’s pained cries. She reminded herself of what Sansa had endured – silly, girly, Sansa. If Sansa could withstand Joffrey, Littlefinger, the Boltons, and Cersei, then Jon could endure this. They would not kill him. They needed him. She repeated this mantra each night.

It was on the ninth night that Arya was caught unawares in the woods. She had been sitting on a rock eating the rabbit she had cooked earlier in the day when movement caught her eye to her right. She stood and drew Needle, but it was too late; she was already surrounded…

\-------------------------------------

**Sandor**

Sandor would never again refer to Tormund as a mad fucker after meeting this _Crow’s Eye._ He only had one eye, but there was enough crazy in it to unsettle Sandor quite deeply.

 _This is who Cersei is putting her stock in?_ As far as Sandor was concerned, they deserved each other.

The Ironborn attacks along the coast had begun a fortnight ago; around the same time, Tywin Lannister sent word that Cersei’s army would be at Moat Cailin within a sennight. The war was in full swing to the east and south, and each day Sandor woke expecting to see Ironborn forces that had made it inland from the east, or the Ironborn host that would arrive from the north, or whatever remained of the sellsword army coming from the south.

It was the host from the north that arrived first, led by none other than Euron fucking Greyjoy, though scouts told them the eastern threat was only a few days out. Now, at Euron’s request, they were holding a parley just outside the North Gate. Sandor, Sansa, Jaime, Tyrion, and Lord Glover rode out to meet Euron and four of his commanders. Euron was dragging along a pitiful looking Jon Stark by a length of rope. The poor bastard didn’t even lift his eyes when his sister spoke, “Euron Greyjoy, we meet again.”

“Lady Stark. Looking much healthier than the last time I saw you! When I saw you last you looked like, well…” Euron made a show of spinning around as if looking for something, “like him!” Euron laughed maniacally as he pointed at Jon.

Sansa ignored his jest, her eyebrow arched condescendingly. Euron’s smile fell away at seeing her reaction, “Really, why are you wolves so glum? You’re such pretty little things. Pretty little things should be smiling, not frowning. You should be making love, not war!”

“This war is not of my making, Lord Greyjoy, but you know that already, since you’ve tied yourself to the mad bitch who sits the Iron Throne, playing at war like a boy with wooden soldiers.”

Eurone wiggled his index finger back and forth, “Now Lady Stark, I can’t have you speaking that way of my betrothed.”

“Ah yes, your betrothal. I wonder which one of you will be first to stab the other in the heart while sleeping…” Sansa snorted, “Oh, who am I fooling? Of course it will be Cersei who rids herself of you at the first opportunity. After all, you’ll have served your purpose by then.”

“Tsk, tsk, Lady Stark. Trying to turn me against my queen? Do you think you can save yourself that way?”

“I think I might save _you_ that way. But if you’d like, go on pretending Cersei will follow through with whatever promises she’s made. I myself am tempted to live in a world of delusion, on occasion… it could only be an improvement over the reality in which we live.”

Euron grinned, “I like my women a little crazy. Perhaps I’ve chosen the wrong queen.”

“Not if you like your women _a lot_ crazy.” Tyrion snorted.

Euron shrugged, “Still, a dead queen is no use to me, I like my women warm and wet. And in a few weeks, Cersei will be alive, and you’ll be dead… or wishing you were.”

Sansa raised her brows, “While this conversation is certainly not _boring_ , I must believe you came here to discuss some terms.”

“Simple. After this talk, there will be a Stark on his or her way to King’s Landing to keep my betrothed company. If it’s _this_ Stark,” Euron yanked Jon forward roughly, “then the war will continue as planned, with my men and I attacking from north and east, Cersei’s men attacking from the south, and Lord Tywin’s men attacking from the west and south. A smart girl like you must realize that is not a war you can win…”

“And if _I’m_ the Stark who goes south?”

“Well, in addition to enjoying a very pleasant journey with _me,”_ he bowed deeply, “you’ll get to go to your death knowing you saved your people. Your brother will be allowed to live – as a Snow, not a Stark. Cersei will appoint a new Warden of the North, someone loyal to her, but none of your people will be harmed as long as they do not take up arms against the Crown or its allies. I may not be an expert in diplomacy, but it sounds to me a small price to pay. Your life in exchange for every other northern life, including your brother’s.”

Sandor did not like where this was going. He knew Sansa and knew the temptation to save her brother and her people would be great. Every muscle in his body tensed. A sideways glance at Jaime showed the Kingslayer was equally concerned.

For the first time, Jon spoke, his voice hoarse, “Don’t even consider it, Sansa.”

“And what of Lord Tyrion?” Sansa asked calmly, ignoring her brother.

Euron’s eyes darted to the dwarf then back to Sansa, “He may remain here, for now, but he will have no position of importance to any noble house.”

Now Sandor truly began sweating. He recalled that the reason Sansa didn’t give into Cersei’s demands before her trial was because she was unwilling to hand over Tyrion.

Tyrion, of course, found it all quite entertaining, or at least pretended to, “Well, it’s official, my lady,” he turned to face Sansa, “My sister hates you more… might be your greatest achievement yet!”

Sansa was unamused, “How do we know you won’t attack even if I hand myself over?”

“Lady Stark! You injure me! I am nothing if not a man of his word.”

Jon’s teeth clenched, “Don’t fucking do it, Sansa. He’s ly—” a knee to his belly had him doubled over, gasping for breath.

Euron shook his head disparagingly as he looked down at Jon, “Have I not told you, pretty wolf, your mouth is for one thing and one thing only – and it isn’t _talking_.”

When Euron took a few steps away again to face Sansa, Jon spoke as quickly as possible, “He lies. I beat him in a duel to let our people go free north of the wall – he didn’t release them!” Jon managed to get it all out even as two of Euron’s men began kicking him in the torso and legs.

When one of them kicked him in the mouth Euron yelled, “That’s enough! Not his face – I like his face pretty!”

When Euron turned back to Sansa her dagger was pressed to his neck, “Call them off.”

Sandor cursed himself. He hadn’t even seen her move as he watched them beating Jon. The men stopped at the sight of their commander being held at knifepoint, but drew their swords, as did Sansa’s party. Even the dwarf got a grip on his axe.

Sansa’s teeth were bared, “You think I give a fuck about _parley_? You think I care about honoring a tradition that your _queen_ would never honor? You think I care about keeping my word to you when you clearly have not done the same to my brother?”

The dagger was pressed firmly against his throat, and by the rage pulsating off of Sansa, Sandor was sure she would slide it across the man’s dirty neck. And in that moment, he hoped she would. He licked his dry lips as if a dog waiting for a bone. He practically thirsted for that fucker’s blood, knowing all too well that Euron may lie about many things, but he was not lying about the ways he was had abused Jon.

Sansa seemed to be fighting against herself, her chest rising and falling as if she’d just fought in a battle. “Give me one reason other than _honor_ why I shouldn’t kill you now. It won’t stop the war, but it would feel _so_ bloody sweet!”

Euron, that crazy bastard, had the nerve to smile, “Aye, you’d be much more fun than your brother. I like my women _feisty_. And that’s quite a grip you’ve got… helping out the Kingslayer since he lost his good hand?”

She pushed the dagger further into his flesh, a drop of blood trickling down in two places, while the other hand gripped into his groin, sending the air out of his lungs. It was no lover’s caress. By the look of it, her fingernails were clawing into his sac, and despite having no affinity for the man Sandor couldn’t help but wince.

“This a strong enough grip for you? Now answer my question before I decide for myself that your neck is as expendable as this worm between your legs.”

Euron’s voice came out higher pitched and breathless, “If you kill me, my men will send word back to Castle Black. To kill every one of your people… slowly.” Sansa must have loosened her hold for he exhaled now, “And if you try to steal away your brother, the same message will be sent.”

Jon sputtered and coughed from where he lay on the ground, having only just caught his breath again, “It’s true. Everyone was alive when we left Castle Black. Euron left men there to guard them, keep them as hostages.”

With a swift kick Sansa separated Euron from herself, and he cackled as he hit the dirt behind him, “I’ll be thinking of _you_ tonight, my lady, even if I have to settle for a poor substitute.

Sansa’s hands were fisted at her side. She turned her back to Euron’s party, and rage still burned in her eyes. It was Tyrion who spoke next, directing his words at Sansa, “It is a trap. Cersei is too far into this to stop now just because she has you. Seeing the utter destruction of your homeland and your people would be your punishment, and only then will she kill you. Please tell me you know this.”

Sansa made no reaction. Euron spoke melodically, “I’m waiting for your answer, pretty wolf.”

Tyrion turned, frustrated by Sansa’s lack of response, “Here is our counter-offer. You cannot have Lady Sansa, so it seems battle is inevitable... But how about instead of trading one pretty wolf for another, you trade one pretty wolf for one ugly lion?”

Euron stood up straighter, surprised by Tyrion’s offer, and Sansa finally spun around, “No, Tyrion!”

“Interesting,” Euron tapped a finger to his crooked lips, “My queen did hope you’d be brought in alive, if at all possible… but at the price of one wolf?”

Euron paced a bit while Sansa grabbed Tyrion by the shoulder, “What are you doing?!”

Tyrion ignored her, continuing to address Euron, “My sister has tried to kill me more times than I can count. I can assure you she feels more affection for Jon Stark – who she’s never met – than for her own little brother. If you wish to give your betrothed a gift she’ll appreciate, take my word for it – bring her the ugly lion instead of the pretty wolf.”

Surprisingly, one of Euron’s men took up the Imp’s cause, “We should do it, Crow’s Eye – be rid of this accursed wolf.” His other men nodded in solidarity as he spat in Jon’s direction.

“Shut up about that shit. Let me think!” Euron growled.

Sansa still had her arm clasped around Tyrion, “You won’t be ending the war, it’s just an even swap, why would you do that?”

Tyrion shushed her, but Sandor knew what he was doing. With her brother safe and sound within Winterfell, Sansa was less likely to make an emotional, reckless decision. And also – just maybe – the Imp was doing it to spare Jon any more pain.

Sandor approached quietly and put his hand around Sansa’s elbow, ready to restrain her if need be. She looked up at him, hurt and fear in her eyes.

She turned back to the Imp, “Tyrion…” she said, her voice wavering.

Finally Euron stopped pacing, “ _No_ – you won’t trick me, little man.”

“Crow’s Eye!” one of his men pleaded, though why it mattered so much to them Sandor did not know. Regardless, Euron silenced them all with an angry, one-eyed glare.

“It’s wolf for wolf, or nothing.”

Looking again to her brother, bloodied and pitiful sitting on the muddied ground, Sansa almost spun out of Sandor’s grasp. When he managed to get both arms around her, she must have known it was futile to fight, yet fight she did. She wriggled and struggled against him, all the while crying out her brother’s name.

Jon summoned whatever strength was left in his body to stand, “It’s alright, Sansa. You can’t trust them.”

Another blow was delivered to his belly, causing him to crumple forward. Sansa cried out again, “I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry!”

“Fuck this. The wolf bitch has made her choice,” Euron waved a hand and turned to lead his men and his hostage back in the direction of their war camp.

“The pack survives, Sansa,” Jon shouted as he was dragged away, “The pack survives; we live on through our ghosts.”

**Jaime**

Jaime had seen this look before, many times, in the faces of many kings and queens and lords and ladies. He’d seen it in men before battle, had seen it in the eyes of his enemies during battle. He saw it in men going to meet the executioner. He had seen it in his own sister and had always chosen to ignore how unsettling it was in that instance.

But he had never seen it in Sansa until the day Euron Greyjoy sent her brother’s pinky finger. And he was seeing it again today. It unnerved him even if he could not fault her for harboring the emotion. If someone had sent him a piece of Tyrion, or back in the day, Cersei, he would have been in a murderous rage. If he had to listen to that person allude to the ways he was using his brother or sister, he would have lost all control. He knew this because he lost control the day he learned that Lady Catelyn had arrested Tyrion. He wanted to kill Ned Stark, consequences be damned.

And that was the look in his queen’s eyes now. It was all in the eyes, and perhaps a bit in the curve of her mouth – neither smile nor frown. It wasn’t red-hot fury, no. It was ice cold fury. There was an eerie calmness about it that made it all the more frightening.

She’d barely spoken since the meeting with Euron. It was now dark outside, and they were gathered in her solar. Only Sandor, Brienne, Jaime, and Tyrion in addition to Sansa herself. Sansa was leaning against the hearth wall, staring at the small fire they’d lit to get the chill out of the air. The flames danced in her eyes. As the others occasionally spoke, she remained quiet. It seemed she wasn’t paying attention at all as they brought Brienne up to speed. So when she finally did, everyone jumped, “They don’t have Arya,” she said without emotion.

Sandor grunted, “Or they have her, and don’t know it’s her.”

“They don’t have her,” Sansa repeated, “The pack survives. We live on through our ghosts... Jon’s words weren’t meant to offer reassurance; they were a message. Ghost and Arya are alive.”

“Then where is she?” Brienne spoke up, “Surely a single traveler would arrive before an entire procession.”

“I was taking my time.”

Everyone turned to find Arya standing in the doorway that adjoined to Sansa’s bedchamber. Brienne and Sandor rushed to greet her – the former with a hug, the latter by mussing her hair like a big brother might do. Sansa herself didn’t move, instead waiting calmly for Jaime and Tyrion to also greet Arya. Eventually, the younger Stark made her way to her sister.

“Where is Ghost?” Sansa asked.

“With Nymeria, and the rest of the pack,” Arya smiled, but there was a sadness in it.

Sansa offered no smile, “I told you she’d come if you needed her.”

“The Queen of the Wolves… always there when her people need her.”

Sansa’s head turned back toward the flames, “Not always.”

“I heard what Jaime and Tyrion just told Brienne – they’re right. The Ironborn have no honor and neither does Cersei. Giving yourself to them wouldn’t save us from war. You know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that,” Sansa answered.

Sandor stepped forward now, “Then why did you want to do it, little bird?”

Jaime snorted, “For her brother.” He looked at Tyrion for a moment, and Tyrion nodded his head knowingly. Then he looked to his queen, who was staring back at him. Their eyes were locked until Jaime offered a slight tip of his head, and Sansa returned the gesture.

Sandor shook his head, and if Jaime weren’t mistaken there was some trace of pain there, “Why? You know… you know what they’d do.”

Sansa shrugged, “Because I can take it.”

Sandor turned away then, and if Jaime had to guess, the man was hurt that Sansa would willingly leave him, though perhaps he understood why.

They all went quiet again. Arya looked around at everyone, “What are we waiting for? Are we not going to get Jon out? I tried myself, but I could never get close enough without taking on too much risk. But we need to get him out, Sansa.”

Sansa now looked pained herself, “We can’t. If we move against them, try to get to Jon, they’ll kill everyone at Castle Black. Jon won’t want that on his conscience, and neither will you.” Her words were compelling, but her voice lacked conviction.

Arya snorted, “So that’s it? You’re giving up on Jon?”

“They won’t kill him, Arya. He is too valuable a hostage. They’re taking him to Cersei.”

Arya threw her arms up, “They’re hurting him, Sansa… And what do you think Cersei will do? After what she did to you…”

“I know!” Sansa shouted, “I fucking know and I don’t need you to tell me!” She turned and strode to the window. Arya seemed to finally understand, or at least accept that no words could sway Sansa.

Sandor got the little wolf’s attention, “The Ironborn men seemed scared of something. They were over-anxious to get rid of Jon. Said he was cursed, or he’d cursed them… something like that.”

Arya waved a hand dismissively, “That was me. I’d been traveling alongside them, deep in the woods. At night I would try to get to Jon, but usually all I could do was take out some guards in the perimeter. When I realized I’d never get close enough to his tent, I still did it each night, just for fun. Me and the wolves,” Arya’s expression turned proud, “Some bodies the wolves dragged off to feast on. Some they just killed. Either way, the Ironborn thought that a pack of mythical wolf-beasts was hunting them because they’d kidnapped a Stark.”

“Did they not search the woods for this _pack?”_

Arya shrugged, “Not deep enough. We were long gone by each morning. Only one hunting party got close to us, five men, but we saw them first and the wolves had them surrounded before they knew we were even there.”

Sandor looked impressed, “How many did you kill, all told?”

Arya scrunched her mouth and thought about her answer, “Close to sixty, I suppose, over the course of the month.”

Sansa finally was drawn back into the conversation, “Arya – they were going to take Jon to King’s Landing. I don’t know if they meant to go south by land or east by sea. I suspect east through the woods. They must have a ship waiting somewhere, likely not near any of the ports, to take him to King’s Landing. Did you see a party leave the camp tonight, before you came back here?”

Arya shook her head, “I left the woods shortly after dusk, took a wide berth to the west and snuck in the Hunter’s Gate.”

Jaime knew where Sansa’s mind was going, “My lady, Euron said if we interfere… if we try to get to Jon...”

“We’re not. The wolves are. Besides, once they’re far enough away from the main host they have no means of communication. If we can get Jon free, it may be weeks or months before they realize he never arrived in the capital and by then we’ll be in the throes of battle. Besides, without a Stark hostage, the people at Castle Black are their only leverage. They cannot kill them.”

“They can kill _some_ of them.”

“There will be no evidence we were involved. Whoever finds their bodies will report that it was wolves.”

“But if we fail in freeing Jon, then they will know for certain. They will send word to Euron that we attempted to save him, and Euron will begin killing hostages at the Wall.”

“Then we must not fail.”

“My lady,” Brienne took up Jaime’s argument, “Why risk it? You said yourself they will not kill Jon, why—”

“No, they’ll do worse than kill him,” Sansa looked around at each of them, daring them to tell her otherwise, “if Jon gets to the capital, gets to Cersei, than no matter whether we win every battle, it will all come down to the same thing. It will be my choice – to let Jon die, or to take his place. Cersei won’t care that she is beat – she will want to hurt me or kill me before her time is through. And I will take his place, have no doubt about that.”

“Sansa, we will find another way!” Tyrion insisted.

Sansa ignored him, turning to Arya, “Ghost can track Jon.”

Arya nodded, “I will leave at once, through the East Gate. The wolves will find me, I don’t think they’ve gone far. Then I’ll let Ghost lead the way.”

Brienne stepped forward, “I would like to go with your sister, my lady.”

“No way. You’re too loud. I’m better off alone, trust me. Me and the wolves can be quiet.”

“The silent hunter,” Sansa smiled at her sister, who returned it with her own grin.

“Sansa, please think this through,” Jaime pleaded, “you would risk your people at Castle Black?”

“If we lose this war, they are dead anyway. Besides, Euron will have his hands full… at dawn, we are going to kill them all.”

“What?!” Every mouth shouted in unison.

“Our scouts say his host is five thousand. The rest are at Castle Black or working their way in from the coast. Once the men from the coast join him, it will be too much for us to take on, at least until your father’s men get here. We must act now. They are not expecting it. Euron thinks because he has hostages that we will not move against him.”

Sandor nodded, “It could work… it will work. We have many more men, and more mounts. We can ride out before dawn, surround them from all sides, and attack.”

Sansa nodded, “I’ll send a raven to Tormund and Last Hearth to have scouts along the Kings Road. If some of the Ironborn survive they will likely flee to the north, to their comrades at Castle Black. They must NOT make it there.”

There was nothing left for Jaime to do but agree with the plan and ready their men. With a nod to Sansa, he, Brienne, and Sandor left to spread the word.

**Sansa**

Sandor, Brienne, and Jaime left to ready the troops, leaving Sansa with only Tyrion and Arya. Sansa addressed her little sister, “If there are too many men with Jon, you will not put yourself in danger.”

“I won’t,” Arya agreed, but Sansa could tell she was just doing so to pacify her.

“I mean it Arya. If Cersei gets her hands on both you and Jon…” Sansa shook her head, “Please don’t make me have to choose between the North and my only living siblings. Sending everyone to Castle Black was a mistake. I cannot take it back, but—”

“You don’t know that. You won’t know whether it was a mistake until the war is done. Having them here – all those women and children… the elderly… it may not have been any better.”

“But Jon would be here.”

Arya nodded, “I will get our brother back. Do not worry for me, Sansa… the pack is strong.”

“Please be careful, Arya.”

“I will. I promise.” This time, Sansa could hear the sincerity in her voice. Arya had been a lone wolf for so long, but it seemed she was starting to understand that her actions, her very _life_ , affected other people.

Sansa walked her sister to the East Gate, trying to ground herself to the moment instead of focusing on the bustle of activity around her. No more words were exchanged, only solemn nods and a brief hug.

After helping with the preparations as much as she could, Sansa went to her room. She knew sleep would not come to her until after this battle was finished. She plucked at the strings of her mandolin, but her heart wasn’t in it.

When her door swung open, she was in Sandor’s arms before he could mumble out a greeting. She peppered him with kisses and didn’t want to let go. Eventually he unwrapped her arms from around his neck, “You’re supposed to save those kisses for when I return, covered in the blood of those fucking worthless cunts.”

“I will. For you, I have an endless supply of kisses.”

Sandor held her by the chin, looking in her eyes and no doubt finding the fear she felt, “There’s no cause for worry, little bird. I’m tough to kill, remember? All us Northmen are.”

“I know, but I’m sending you all out there, unprepared…”

“We’ve been prepared for months, you know this. It’s a soldier’s lot in life – be ready to fight at a moment’s notice.”

“You’ll be careful?”

“No. Never have been before, and I’m not about to start now. But I won’t be stupid...” he straightened up, his tone becoming more serious, “Brienne is staying here; she will lead the castle defense if it comes to that. You have Ser Addam, too… don’t think his presence needs to be a secret anymore. Tyrion’s staying too, though I think he was hoping for the chance to impress his she-bear with his axe skills.”

Sansa smiled, “I’m sure he will find other ways to impress her.”

“Don’t put those images into my head, girl.”

Sansa chuckled, “You think this will work? You weren’t just agreeing with me?”

“I think it will work. This is war, girl. Striking fast, when your enemy isn’t expecting it… if we didn’t have the numbers to take them it would be a different story. They’re counting on us staying behind the castle walls. They don’t know we have the Old Lion on our side, they’ll be expecting us to focus on defense, not offense.”

Sansa nodded, “You’re leaving now?”

“Aye, I came to say… not goodbye, but that I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Alright,” Sansa forced a smile she wasn’t feeling, “I’ll have a hot bath and a meal waiting for you.”

He snorted, “Just you little bird. That’s all I’ll need.”

She nodded and kissed him one last time before he turned to leave. Only he stilled just before the door, turning his head enough to look at her over his shoulder, “And perhaps a piece of strawberry pie.”

His large silhouette disappeared into the hallway, so he couldn’t see the wide grin that appeared on her lips of its own accord, nor the tears of sadness mixed with hope that followed.


	120. No Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new POV from one of my fave ASOIAF characters (in a love to hate, hate to love kinda way)

**Tywin**

When Tywin’s host fell in behind Cersei’s sellsword army, he was surprised to find her numbers smaller than he’d expected. With the Ironborn and Crown fleets already at full capacity, he knew the men unaccounted for had not sailed north. This led him to the only logical assumption – that Cersei had kept a good portion of the force in King’s Landing to defend the city.

_Smart._

Tywin growled to himself. His joining the fight must have given Cersei the confidence that she and Euron had more than enough men to lay waste to the North. She was smart enough to leave a decent force behind to defend the city, possibly expecting the wolf queen had something up her sleeve, like Stannis Baratheon did when he boldly sailed on King’s Landing while much of its army was off in other places, fighting the war.

That was a matter for another time, of course. They must win the coming battles, defend the north, protect Sansa and her people, then together they could decide their course of action for taking the throne. He dispatched a messenger to bring word to Ser Bryan in the Vale, who would be marching south after the Lannister host passed him to the north. Plans would need to be amended.

It was tedious going through the motions of meeting with Cersei’s commanders, contributing to their battle plans when in reality he would be fighting against them. The only part that wasn’t boring was when one of the commanders suggested Tywin lead his men through the Moat first. Tywin had straightened to his full height, _“I agreed to join my daughter in this war because I won’t risk that she fails. I gain nothing, and in fact my participation is costing me… **greatly**. We will take up the rear, we will defend from the south in case Lady Stark’s allies in the Vale try to pinch us between their knights and the archers at the Moat, but I will _not _go first through the Moat. I would sooner turn my men around and return to Casterly Rock, leave it to the Gods to decide which queen wins this war.”_

By the way their eyes darted away in submission, Tywin was pleased to know his reputation was well intact.

When the battle commenced, it was a bloodbath. Cersei’s forces had the numbers advantage, Tywin, Edmure, and Derik Cassel’s forces had the positional advantage. Swords swung and arrows flew for a full day and full night before Cersei’s army was reduced enough that they decided it was best to yield. Tywin and Edmure had lost many men, as had the Northern force holding the Moat, but in the end they were triumphant.

There would be no mercy for the captives other than a swift death. Tywin wouldn’t waste resources to feed these men who already cost the Crown so much – the Crown he hoped to claim very soon.

Of course, many made it through the Moat and were, no doubt, regrouping and preparing to continue north. Without the safety of the Moat, Tywin would not engage them in open battle. Nor did he think they would choose to engage him. Winterfell was their destination, and they had to be smart enough to know Tywin’s men who came north via ship would soon be closing in on them from the west. They’d likely head east and north, hoping to meet up with the Ironborn who by now would be making their way toward Winterfell.

Tywin would allow his men several days to rest in and around the Moat. There were injured to be tended, plans to be made. They needed to resupply and hopefully get news from Winterfell and the Vale.

Apparently, he wouldn’t need to wait long. He was brought immediately to the young lord of the Moat, Derik Cassel. The man offered only a cursory greeting before handing Tywin a scroll, “Arrived yesterday, from the queen.”

Tywin stopped himself before asking “Which queen?” and instead unrolled and read the parchment,

> _Lord Cassel,_
> 
> _The Ironborn host that took Castle Black arrived north of our walls this morning. Euron Greyjoy, as expected, had my brother Jon. He offered an end to the war if I would trade myself for Jon. Jon himself, along with Lord Tyrion, were convinced it was a trap – Euron has already proven to have no honor, whatsoever. Jon is being sent to King’s Landing, and I don’t need to tell you what that means._
> 
> _As I write this, our army is surrounding the Ironborn under cover of darkness. I made the decision to eliminate this squadron and its crazed commander before the rest of the Ironborn make their way inland from the east. If we succeed, we’ll have made a dent in our enemy’s force, and cut the head off the snake – or in this case, the squid. If we fail, there will be no one to blame but me._
> 
> _The men, women, and children who I sent to Castle Black are now hostages and will likely remain so until the end of the war, as we can spare no men for a rescue mission. We must remain strong for them. We must be victorious for them._
> 
> _Yara and Shireen have held White Harbor admirably, but the other coastal towns were not so lucky. Of course, this is disappointing but not unexpected._
> 
> _I hope to soon receive word that your and Lord Lannister’s men have had an initial victory, and to share the same news with you._
> 
> _There is no more to say, and I must cut my letter short anyway as Lord Tyrion is demanding I drink with him while we await the outcome of the battle. Since he volunteered to take Jon’s place as Euron’s hostage, I feel indebted to him, and I suppose I should practice paying my debts – after all, there I much I owe to Cersei Lannister and Euron Greyjoy, and I intend to pay them back with interest._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Sansa_

Tywin looked to the young lord when he finished reading. Derik nodded, “The Ironborn didn’t do as expected – before they made landfall along the eastern coast, they sailed north of the Wall and laid a trap for those sent to shelter there. I received a letter from Lady Sansa some weeks back notifying me of this development because… because my cousin Beth is there. Euron sent a raven to Winterell with Jon Stark’s pinky finger.” Derik’s face flushed with anger.

Tywin wouldn’t say anything to this young lord, but he could not imagine the Ironborn were _kind_ to those they captured. Instead he offered a slight nod, then turned on his heels and proceeded to the quarters assigned to him. After removing his armor he read the letter one more time. He admired Sansa’s bold move to attack the Ironborn host but could only hope the rest of Euron’s men were not close enough to come to his aid. If they were, Sansa just sent her men out to be slaughtered.

Despite being weary, Tywin read the letter a third time, this time focusing on her choice of words and the tone that came through. It was obviously written for her friend Derik’s eyes. Tywin couldn’t imagine her using such a casual tone with him. He chuckled to himself at her comment about learning to pay her debts, though he shuddered to think of her vengeful fantasies for Cersei and Euron. She could have her fun with the squid, but Tywin would insist on mercy for his daughter. A swift, painless death. It wasn’t what she deserved, but she was still a Lannister, and still his daughter.

Tywin rubbed his brow. How had it come to this point? How had Tywin Lannister come to side with a Stark over his own flesh and blood? There was a time Cersei was the only one of his children that he was proud of, but living with her in the capital these past few years, seeing the type of queen she was… it had changed his opinion of her, to put it mildly. She reminded him of a female Aerys II. She sought to make others suffer, often for no reason other than to exert her power or act on grudges that should have died years ago. She hated the Starks, hated the Tyrells, hated the Martells – all families who were or could have been strong allies, but she preferred to have as enemies. Had she learned nothing from her father?

With a sigh, Tywin turned his attention to his other children. He could begrudgingly admit that Jaime had found his purpose in serving the northern queen. He was her highest-ranking commander. He had broken away from his sister’s unnatural hold on him. Though he pursued neither wealth nor power, Tywin could be… _proud_ of him.

And Tyrion? In Sansa’s letter, she wrote that Tyrion offered himself in exchange for Jon Stark, but for what purpose? Clearly Tyrion knew it would not end the war – even Sansa surrendering herself wouldn’t accomplish that. Why was Tyrion willing to sacrifice himself? Was it to spare the boy some pain? To spare Sansa some pain? It made no sense to Tywin, but then again, few of Tyrion’s actions ever made sense to him.

By now, the battle near Winterfell was either won or lost. He couldn’t think about that now, nor could he think about Jon Stark, the hostages at Castle Black, or the army that Cersei retained to defend the capital. Tywin Lannister knew war better than anyone. One must be aware of all goings-on at all times. One must consider every possible outcome. But one must not think too far ahead or far away, or else he risks losing the battle immediately in front of him.

Once Tywin was stripped down to his smallclothes he sunk onto the bed. He detested going to sleep dirty with sweat, mud, and blood on his skin, but today he decided he didn’t care. He stared at the plaster-patched ceiling and wondered if this could really end for good. With the respect and fear people had for him, and the respect and love they had for Sansa, he thought it just might.

Since Sansa had agreed to his alliance and the marriage that came along with it, he had given the girl little thought. There was too much that would need to go their way to actually claim the throne – there still was, yet they had taken a big step closer these past few days.

Soon Cersei would learn of Tywin’s betrayal. His stomach churned at the thought of her reaction. Though he did not know the young man, he feared that Jon Stark would be the one to suffer for Tywin’s actions and choices. But alas, that was another thing he couldn’t worry about now.

Feeling restless even though his body was weary, he lit a candle and made himself comfortable at the small table, drinking but not enjoying the bitter excuse for wine. Retrieving parchment and quill he set himself to task. But before writing so much as one word, he was already at a loss.

_How should I address my ally – the woman I am going to marry, Gods willing?_

With an amused snort, he made his decision.

> _Wolf,_
> 
> _We were indeed victorious at the Moat. Your bannerman, Lord Cassel, and uncle Edmure both survived without sustaining serious injuries. There were many casualties on both sides, but all in all it could have been worse. The number of Cersei’s men who made it through the Moat is not yet known, but our scouts will soon find out. We are not pursuing as we do not have the numbers to engage them in open field battle with any confidence._
> 
> _We will rest and resupply at the Moat for no more than a sennight, then will travel north via the Kingsroad. I expect the army of sellswords may travel more easterly in hopes to unite with their Ironborn comrades, but this is just a suspicion._
> 
> _I am sorry to learn of the situation at Castle Black, and the capture of your brother. I am sure it is troubling you deeply but trust an old man who’s seen many battles – such is unavoidable. Nothing in war goes according to plan. Believing you can control every variable is akin to madness, in my opinion._
> 
> _I agree with Tyrion and Jon’s appraisal that no trade would have ended the war, and I hope you do not forget this. We must keep our eyes on the ultimate goal of peace for the realm, though as usual the price of peace is blood. I will go to my grave never understanding why this is so._
> 
> _You’ll know the travel time from MC to Winterfell for a war host better than I – but I expect I will see you in less than three weeks. Of course, my men from the western coast should be reaching you very soon – perhaps before you receive this letter._
> 
> _One thing of importance I must convey: it appears Cersei kept a sizeable portion of her sellsword army in the capital. Taking the throne may be harder than we initially expected. I’ve already sent a messenger to inform Ser Bryan, so he does not attempt anything that would be misguided. This is a bridge we will cross when we come to it._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Lion_

**Cersei**

Kettleblack rushed into her room with his sword drawn, eyes darting around as if looking for an attacker.

“What is it? Why have you barged in here?” Cersei demanded.

He looked back her, confusion written in his countenance, “I heard you scream, your grace.”

“You are mistaken, Ser Osmund,” Cersei replied with a snort. He only stared at her skeptically until she lifted an eyebrow, then his eyes dropped to the floor.

Cersei shook her head before looking down at the scroll still clutched in her left hand. It was brought via raven from The Twins this morning. Walder Frey reported to her that her father had betrayed her, attacking her army from the south just as they began battling their way north through the moat.

Cersei was seething; first Tyrion, then Jaime, now her own _father_ choosing the Stark bitch over their own flesh and blood.

_The longer I live, the more I’m convinced men have no usefulness whatsoever._

With a laugh, Cersei turned back to Ser Osmund, “My father has turned against me, throwing in with the wolves,” she sipped her wine, trying in vain to wash away the sickening taste of the words she’d just spoken.

Ser Osmund’s eyes went wide, “Oh.” The blood drained from his face.

“ _Oh?_ That’s all you have to say?”

“I—What are you going to do, your grace?”

Cersei rolled her eyes. The man was good with his cock and his tongue, decent with a sword, but if there was a brain behind his eyes, she’d yet to see any indication of it. His two brothers were exactly the same.

“It’s already done,” Cersei responded, “Euron has taken Castle Black – where all their women and children were hiding. Hundreds and hundreds of hostages. He is sending her _dear brother_ here as we speak.”

“You intend to force her surrender? To save the hostages, she must bend the knee?”

“No, I intend to best her in this war, then make her watch as I have them all killed. Let her people come to hate her, to see what her defiance has cost them.”

“And her brother – will you offer him the Wardenship if he swears the kingdom to you?”

Cersei ran her tongue over her teeth before sipping more wine, “No… I’ll never trust a Stark. I should have put them all down before winter came, if not years ago.”

Ser Osmund swallowed, “Then what is your plan?”

“With her brother here, she cannot attack, unless she is willing to sacrifice him. We’ll see how well the _pack_ sticks together, then.”

“And if she attacks?”

“We have more than enough men to defend the city. She’d be a fool.”

“She has your father’s armies now…”

Cersei flung her goblet at him, missing his head by inches but splattering him with wine, “Do you think I keep you around to tell me things I already know?!”

“Apologies, your grace. The Red Keep can withstand such a siege, I’m sure.”

“Of course it can, but I’ll keep her brother alive just in case,” a smile cracked on her lips, “he might be fun. They say he is handsome, and those northerners have little else to do to pass the bleak winters other than rut like animals. Perhaps he can even teach me a thing or two.”

“As you say, your grace,” Ser Osmund once again looked to the floor.

“She’s used her cunt to secure the loyalty of my brothers, probably my father, perhaps I’ll return the favor, turn her own brother against her.”

Ser Osmund cleared his throat, “He enlisted in the Night’s Watch; you know they’re a bunch of pillow biters.”

Her smile broadened, “Then you can have your fun with him, just like I let you have fun with his sister.”

Ser Osmund’s brow furrowed.

“I let you play with my toys, Ser Osmund, yet you seem ungrateful.”

His eyes opened wide, “Of course not, your grace. Only, none of them are as fine as you...”

“As course they’re not, you fool…” Cersei leaned against her desk, spreading her legs and lifting the hem of her skirt a few inches off the floor.

It was why Osmund Kettleblack was her favorite, he never hesitated to serve his queen. As he kneeled before her, she lifted her skirts to bunch around her hips, and he got right to work.

“You never did tell me… what was it like when you fucked the wolf bitch?”

Osmund pulled back, looking up to Cersei’s eyes with trepidation, “I did it because you commanded, your grace. It was nothing like when I’m with you.”

“You daft thing, I know it wasn’t! Do you think I’m jealous of that northern whore?” Cersei shoved his face back to her juncture, “Did she fight? Did she scream?”

Ser Osmund’s words were muffled, “No, your grace.”

“Did she beg you to stop?”

He shook his head.

Cersei swallowed her disappointment, “Just as I thought… the little pervert probably enjoyed it.”

“I suspect so, your grace,” he broke away just long enough to speak, then returned to his task.

“We’ll have to get more creative next time. I want the bitch begging for her life before I take her ugly head.”

Ser Osmund nodded his head, the extra motion feeling wonderful.

All the many ways Cersei could hurt the girl flashed before her eyes. If she didn’t mind getting fucked, then she’d be made to watch her brother be buggered with a cane, perhaps, or a sword. And Tyrion, too. And the fucking Hound. All of them… she’d make the bitch watch them endure all manner of pain until she begged for mercy on their behalf… and then…. and then…

Cersei grunted through her release before shoving Ser Osmund away. She poured herself another glass of wine and leaned against the table, “We need to gather the commanders, tell them of the news, make our plans.”

Osmund wiped his mouth, “Of course, your grace. I shall send word.” With a bow he exited her chamber, leaving her alone to reread the scroll from old Walder Frey.

_Never trust a man…_

_Never trust anyone…_

**Sansa**

When it became clear that victory was all but assured, Brienne summoned Sansa to the northern battlements. Tyrion joined her. What was left of the Ironborn force was surrendering, and thank the Gods, because scouts said the closest Ironborn coming from the east would arrive in a day, with others trickling in after that.

Sansa watched for only a moment before addressing Brienne, “Send word to Ser Jaime… kill all but the highest-ranking commander. Euron Greyjoy, ideally. The rest may be killed swiftly. Leave their bodies where they lay… No, on second thought, have some of the bodies carted to the eastern and southern fields. Let their comrades traipse through their corpses if they mean to attack us.”

Tyrion looked startled by her words, “Should we not keep some alive? To trade with our people at Castle Black? Or in case the coming battles do not go our way…?”

“I will not plan for defeat, Lord Tyrion. We will have many more hostages before this war is done, and even without them we will find a way to save our people at Castle Black.”

She saw the look pass between Brienne and Tyrion, but she didn’t care. She was tired of upholding honor when no one else did. Tywin Lannister was alive today because he chose the survival of his people over honor time and again. Ned Stark was dead because he chose his personal sense of honor over the lives of his family. Sansa would not be the _honorable queen_ who led her people to death. Sansa thought of House Tully’s words – Family, Duty, Honor…

_Family first. Jon, Arya, Sandor, Jaime, Tyrion, Brienne… Then Duty. My duty to my people, to protect them and see them prosper. Then honor. My personal honor is less important than my family and my duty…_

Brienne hadn’t moved, seemingly giving Sansa the opportunity to rethink her command. Sansa looked Brienne square in her blue eyes, “I am not housing and feeding hundreds of Ironborn throughout the war while our own people go without. Do you think they would extend us the same courtesy? Do you think they have treated my brother well?”

Brienne shook her head slowly.

“Right, then deliver my message to Ser Jaime. Thank you.”

_Let them call me cruel. Let word spread to Cersei’s sellsword army that the North took no prisoners. Let them wonder if the gold they fight for is worth the death that awaits them…_

She returned to her solar and sat down to pen a note to Ser Bryan in the Vale.

> _Ser Bryan, Acting Lord Protector of the Vale,_
> 
> _By now you have received word from our mutual ally that a large portion of Cersei’s hired army has remained in King’s Landing. I trust you know marching on the capital yourself will not be a success. It will only be together that we can take the throne._
> 
> _I know you are not a man who enjoys sitting back on his hands. Make haste to the north, instead – by sea or by land at your prerogative. Join us in the fight for the North, then we will share in the glory of taking King’s Landing and ending Cersei Lannister’s reign of suffering – you, me, Lord Tywin, Lord Edmure, Lady Shireen, and Lady Yara._
> 
> _Inform me of your plans, or if you disagree with mine. I look forward to hosting you for a victory feast very soon._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Lady Sansa_

Sansa’s wheels were spinning through every possible outcome and every possible response. She considered them all. Only no matter how many possibilities she considered, victory was always hers. Not easy victory, of course, but no matter what Cersei did, there was a response that Sansa could make to win the war. It brought her no confidence though. Confidence was for fools, but it did bring her some peace of mind…

Hours must have passed after the raven was sent, as the sun was low in the sky when a knock sounded at her door, breaking her concentration. 

“Enter,” she called.

“A gift, my lady,” Sandor rasped as he shoved a bound Euron Greyjoy into the room.

Sansa rose, knowing this was the best possible outcome of the battle they’d just fought. It played so perfectly into her hands…

“A fine gift indeed,” she tipped her head at Sandor. His eyes were dark, but his mouth bore a satisfied grin.

Euron sneered, “You won the first battle, she-wolf. This was nothing. A fraction of my force.”

“First _two_ battles.”

His smile dropped. Hers formed.

“Lord Lannister, Lord Tully, and Lord Cassel also won the battle at Moat Cailin.”

She waited patiently for the words to sink in.

“The Lion…?” his voice faltered.

“Yes, the Great Lion chose _me_ over his own daughter. Does that make you wish to reevaluate your own decisions? After all, the man has an uncanny knack for coming out on the _winning_ side,” she leaned back against her desk.

“You’re still outnumbered. You still aren’t sure you can win, that’s why you kept me alive. So you could trade me.”

Sansa clasped her hands, “Who would ever wish to trade for you?”

“Cersei will trade your brother for me.”

Sansa snorted, “I doubt that very much, but we’ll never know, because she’ll never get her hands on my brother.”

“You stupid…”

“Watch your tongue, Lord Greyjoy, unless you care to part with it.”

“You think you’ll trade me for the hostages at Castle Black?”

Sansa shook her head.

“Torture me then? Hmm? Go ahead, I’ll _enjoy_ it,” he licked his teeth.

“That was a consideration, indeed, but I think I will find a more productive use for you,” she jerked her chin toward Sandor, “Take him to the dungeon. I want four guards posted, day and night. He is not to be harmed.”

“Aye,” Sandor yanked him out the door before he could get the last word in. When he returned a half hour later, he knew to find Sansa in her bedchamber rather than her solar. They didn’t have much time, perhaps only this night, before the next battle would be waged.

When she kissed him without delay, he smiled but pushed her back, “I’m covered in sweat and blood.”

“Your point?” she asked mischievously, parroting words he had said to her after Daenerys had sent assassins… what felt like an eternity ago.

“Dirty little bird,” he smiled into her lips before lifting her onto the table. His breeches came down, her skirts came up, and he slid in before she could brace herself for the onslaught. His breathy groan told her that just being inside her was satisfaction enough, though that didn’t stop the violent rutting that followed.

She’d been dead after one battle, a prisoner after the next. This was the first time she felt firsthand what bloodlust could do to a man. The Sandor that worshipped her body and made her pleasure his personal mission was gone. In his place was a feral beast of a man with a singular purpose: to claim his mate. And claim her he did. Her hips would surely be bruised by his fingertips, her neck would be reddened by his teeth, and her woman’s place would ache for days to remind her who had been there. And she welcomed all of it. This man had killed for her and would do it again. This man had been by her side since before she even appreciated his presence and protection.

When his cock pulsed deep inside her, she wished it would leave behind a more permanent reminder, but now was not the time to harbor such hope – for multiple reasons. Instead she contented herself with the feel of his warmth within her and his weight against her.

“Little bird,” he whispered as he finally untangled them, leaving a kiss on her forehead. The beast was gone, the man was back, and within minutes the man was snoring on her bed.

**Arya**

“I swear we’re being followed.”

“Will you shut up about it?”

“I feel it, too. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.”

“Shut the fuck up, both of you!”

The apparent leader in the group of twelve Ironborn scum seemed to have finally shut his men up for good after they spent the last twenty minutes rambling on about the eeriness of the woods around him, the curse of the wolf, some called it. If her mission weren’t so serious, Arya might have laughed. She’d been tracking them for two nights and two days with the wolves and was getting ready to make her move.

In truth, they’d have not sensed her presence if she didn’t want it that way – her water dancing lessons and training at the House of Black and White made her as quiet as a mouse and as stealthy as a shadow cat. Sometimes she wished she’d stayed to complete her training rather than seeking out Daenerys Targaryen. More often she wished she’d done neither and returned to the North, to her sister and brother. She would have liked to be there when they eradicated every last Bolton, when they fought the Night King’s army, and when they fought the dragon queen. What losses could she have prevented? What suffering could she have spared?

Turning back to Jon’s captors, she chose not to dwell on the past. These men had heard her because she wanted to be heard. She wanted them afraid. She wanted them believing that whatever harm they did to Jon would be wrought upon them by a pack of mystical wolves. And it worked. As far as she could tell, Jon looked no worse than he had the last time she’d seen him, still in the company of Euron Greyjoy. Their next words confirmed her suspicion.

“Fine, but I’ll not be the one to carve out his tongue. I don’t care what Crow’s Eye wants, he’s not the one out here surrounded by the forest; he’s not the one who will pay the price.”

The commander shook his head, “You’re a bunch of fucking cowards is what you are. I’ll take the bastard’s tongue out myself.” He resumed nibbling on a rabbit’s leg.

Arya crept back silently to where the pack was waiting. She looked between Nymeria and Ghost, “You ready?”

Of course they gave no acknowledgment, but she knew they understood.

Arya nodded, “Wait for my signal.”

In the past Arya would have rushed them all at once, but she was wiser now, more patient. She thought things through – like how easy it would be for one of the men to hold Jon at knifepoint and order her to call off the wolves.

So instead she took a wide berth and approached from the east, making her presence known before she was within sword’s reach of any of the men, “Pardon, milords, can you spare some food?” she asked meekly.

The men all looked to her, their eyes widening in fear, and some drawing daggers or swords, before they deemed the threat minimal.

“Who the fuck’s asking?” the commander shouted.

“I’ve been on the road for days. I’m hungry.”

“That wasn’t an answer, boy.”

“That ain’t no boy, Ser. That’s a girl.”

“That’s no…” the man squinted, “Aye, I suppose it is,” the man smiled to reveal rotten and missing teeth, “why’s a little girl like you out here on your own?”

“I… I fled Sea Dragon Point. There was nowhere to go but west, but please, I’m hungry!” she took a few steps closer. Jon, thankfully, knew not to betray their familiarity with his eyes.

“And why should we share our food with you? What you gonna offer in return?”

“I can help you! Strength in numbers, right? I know how to use this,” she pulled the dagger from her belt awkwardly, then held it like a toddler holds a spoon.

The men laughed. “Aye, a fine warrior you’d make,” one of them chuckled.

Arya smiled dumbly, taking a few more steps toward the apparent commander, who was sitting next to Jon.

“Who’s he?” she nodded toward Jon.

“No one you’d know. Something of a camp follower, you could say,” the man smiled wickedly.

“Why’s he gagged?”

“Cause he don’t know when to shut up.”

Arya shrugged, “So, are you going to give me some rabbit?” she took more steps closer.

“That depends,” the man eyed her up and down.

“On what?” she asked innocently.

“On what you got under that cloak.”

_Only two more daggers and a sword._

She shook her head petulantly, “I don’t have no coin. Just this dagger. It was my father’s.”

The man rolled his eyes, “Are you simple?”

She shrugged, “Why do people always ask me that?”

The man shook his head sarcastically, “I haven’t a clue.”

“So can I have some?” she asked impatiently.

“Ah, fuck it. If it’ll shut you up.”

Arya beamed at the man, “You’re nice for invaders! My ma said you’re a bunch of ravers and rapers, but why would you share your food then?”

The men laughed again.

_This is almost too easy._

“Here, girl,” the man closest to her held out a charred rabbit leg.

“Thanks!” She let out a low whistle as if admiring the food. As she reached for the piece of meat with her left hand, her right slid forward, piercing the man between two ribs like a hot knife through butter. With his back to the others they didn’t even see it happen, nor did the commander see Needle before it was buried in the back of his neck, but the men across from him saw it exit through his throat.

Jon saw it all. He leapt to his feet and was about to throw himself on one of the men when a whir of white beat him to it. Arya grabbed Jon by the arm and yanked him away from the campfire, dragging him along until they were ten yards away.

Together they turned back to watch the carnage unfold. Eight wolves and two direwolves, against ten men. It was no match, especially when Arya took out one of the men out with an arrow.

Threat eliminated, Arya turned to her brother, cutting the rope at his wrists and removing the gag. He looked gaunt and stunned. He looked broken and weak.

_What would Sansa do?_

Arya reached for Jon’s hand, only then noticing his pinky was missing with a dirty bandage in its place.

“Right,” Arya spoke with poise she did not feel, “let’s get you back.”

Jon shook his head, “The hostages at Castle Black…”

“No one will know.”

“If Euron sees me return to Winterfell…”

“By the time we get back, that mad fucker will either be dead or wishing he was; come on.”

Jon’s chapped lips parted, “What did they do?”

“Sansa ordered her army to ride out before dawn, surround Euron’s men, and kill them all.”

“There are more Ironborn coming from the east. We passed some of them.”

“I know, I saw them too. But they won’t see us. Now will you come on? I don’t want to miss another battle!”

“I can’t go back, Arya. If they see me and send word to Euron’s men at Castle Black…”

“And if I return without you, I’ll never hear the end of it from Sansa.”

A pained smile formed on his lips, “Arya… it was dangerous to come for me.”

She gestured at the wolves, happily feasting on their bounty, “ _Was it?_ Now are you coming back, or do I need to knock you over the head and have the wolves drag you back by a length of rope?”

Concern flashed in his eyes, but there was something else there, too. Something she’d seen when Jon shook her awake those weeks ago at Castle Black. He was _afraid._

Sansa’s words came back to her… her response when Sandor had asked why she’d trade herself for Jon even if it wouldn’t end the war: _“Because I can take it.”_

As she stared at Jon’s darting eyes, his trembling lips, she was reminded of the disillusionment she felt after learning her sister, not Daenerys, had killed the Night King. Of the way she felt the day Sansa walked into the Inn at the Crossroads bearing a warrior’s armor and a warrior’s wounds. Of the day Sansa confessed all that Cersei’s men had done to her. Sansa wanted to protect Jon and Arya from _this…_

Jon was afraid to go back in the direction of the Ironborn… _Because_ _he can’t take it._

Though the prospect filled her with dread, she handed Jon one of her daggers. She knew not to make it about what he had endured, which she was afraid to even imagine. She made it about both of them, “We will not be captured, Jon. We will not give them something to wield over Sansa.”

Jon’s features relaxed – the reassurance of control seeped into him. Eyes closed, he nodded, “Let’s go home.”


	121. Not what it appears

**Tywin**

Blood pooled in the rutted ground around Winterfell.

The Ironborn had used their numbers advantage to try to swarm the fortress from three sides. When Ser Addam and Lord Glover rode out to the western woods just before the Ironborn’s arrival from the east, they devised a plan with Tywin’s men there. The force would split in two – one advancing in a northeasterly route, the other southeasterly. They would meet the Ironborn in the field and pinch them between their army and Winterfell, where archers and the castle guards would defend the castle. The Ironborn’s only path for retreat would be back east into the woods, but some of Ser Bryan’s knights would be waiting there.

The only problem was that would leave the southern Lannister host exposed to the part of Cersei’s army that made it through the Moat. But that was where Tywin’s battalion came in, with a little help from Ser Bryan. The man’s army caught up with Tywin shortly after he had departed the Moat.

 _“The plan was for you to go south, Ser Bryan."_ Tywin had stated the obvious upon meeting Ser Bryan.

_“Indeed it was, Lord Lannister, but with Cersei’s army in the capital, the plan needed to be changed. Lady Sansa wrote me to come north, so north I come.”_

_“This isn’t your full force…”_

_“No. The men who would have traveled by ship to King’s Landing came north as well, by sea. They’ll reinforce Ladies Baratheon and Greyjoy at White Harbor and will seize or destroy the lightly guarded Ironborn ships all along the coast.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Lady Sansa wants to block all escape for the Ironborn. She even sent word to Karhold to dispatch four ships north of the wall, to seize or destroy the vessels that delivered Euron’s men,”_ a smile formed on the man’s ordinarily stoic face.

Tywin nodded, _“Trapping them at the Wall. Any other news?”_

_“I left immediately after notifying Lady Sansa of my plans; you likely know more than I do, my lord.”_

Tywin now stared at the residue of carnage surrounding the proud but bleak fortress. Some of the carnage he caused himself; they’d been battling for days, sometimes gaining ground, sometimes surrendering it.

Today he would finally meet face to face with his betrothed for the first time since their secret rendezvous at Moat Cailin. The western fields were clear – held entirely by Stark and Lannister forces, and he rode through the West Gate on his large courser, with Ser Addam at his side and twelve guards behind him.

He was surprised to find Sansa in the courtyard, waiting to greet him. She stood like a proud statue, only the strands of hair whipping around her face gave away the fact that she was not carved of stone.

He had expected to be led into the Great Hall to meet her. Despite her not leaning on ceremony, he did – dropping to one knee and bowing his head as he came within a yard of her, “Your grace,” he spoke clearly, for all in the courtyard to hear.

When he rose, he had to repress a smirk at her reaction. Her flushed cheeks showed her modesty. To her, being called _queen_ was embarrassing. But quickly enough she regained her composure, quirking an eyebrow as she curtsied and mumbled back, “Your grace.”

This time he allowed the half smile to pull at one corner of his mouth. Perhaps he was becoming delirious from too many weeks of campaign.

She addressed him as a gracious lady, not a queen in the midst of seeing her people through war, “Do you care to rest and refresh yourself, Lord Lannister, or would you prefer to commence our council immediately?”

“Neither, my lady. I’d speak with you in private.”

That beautiful brow lifted again before she tilted her head, “As you wish.”

Tywin received no shortage of glances and glares as he was led through the courtyard and then the keep. Some appeared to be awe, others fear, others resentment. He returned them all with a hard expression, pleased that his tall frame towered over almost everyone.

Once seated in the lady’s solar, sipping tea, Tywin appraised his betrothed. Her eyes seemed to hold a challenge, though he knew not what it might be.

After he’d updated her on all that had transpired, from his point of view, since their last correspondence, she merely nodded. Then, without preamble she tossed a scroll onto the table. Tywin held her eyes long moments before picking up the parchment.

> _Recall our last meeting. I spoke of your friends, who are not powerful but who are many. Their admiration for you has waxed, as their loyalty to the other has waned. That other is blinded by rage, yet not blind to the turning of the tide._
> 
> _That other has become desperate. Desperation breeds danger. It also breeds madness. Has your handsome friend ever told you what madness once would have wrought, if not for a single act of betrayal – one well-placed strike?_
> 
> _In the history of men, whether in war or in love, few surrender gracefully. I once knew a woman, kind but meek. Her husband was a savage, covetous beast. I offered to help her flee her cage, but the beast’s words paralyzed her: ‘If I can’t have you, no man will.’ It was a promise soon fulfilled._
> 
> _I will leave my city soon, for I feel no safer here than that woman felt in her own home. I will continue to pray for your victory, as I pray daily for a lasting peace, but know that victory may not be what it appears. Never underestimate what mad people will do._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Your humble servant and friend_

Tywin read the missive twice before handing it back to Sansa, “I assume “the other” refers to Cersei?”

Sansa nodded, “The humble servant and friend is Lord Varys.

Tywin nodded, “And your _handsome_ _friend_?”

“Your son, Ser Jaime.”

“Mmm… Varys is suggesting you somehow get to someone close to Cersei? One of her guards, perhaps… convince them to commit regicide? Like Jaime did to King Aerys?”

Sansa shook her head, “No, it is not a suggestion. It is a warning. If Jaime hadn’t killed the Mad King, he’d have scorched the entire city with wildfire.”

Tywin knew shock was written on his face. He was silent for minutes before speaking again, “The cache of wildfire Tyrion used against Stannis, and that we later used against Daenerys…”

Sansa bowed her head, “It wasn’t a weapon for Aerys to use against his enemies. It was his guarantee that no one but a Targaryen would ever sit the Iron Throne… that if the city were ever to fall to his enemies, he’d destroy it first, and all the people inhabiting it.”

“Jaime never told me…”

“No; few know.”

“Why?”

Her eyes softened, “That’s for your son to tell you, if he wishes. I myself do not know.”

Tywin nodded – another matter for another time. Then he had another realization, one he should have known all along, “The Sept of Baelor?”

Sansa’s lips curled, “I was wondering when you’d realize.”

“It wasn’t the remainder of Aerys’ hoard, because Tyrion already had that removed from the city. We used the last of it on Daenerys Targaryen’s fleet…”

“You already knew, or suspected, that the explosion was no accident, my lord. Now you also know it was no hidden stash that Cersei _stumbled_ _upon_ …”

He nodded weakly, “She had it made… _Qyburn_ … I never trusted him. He’s the one that made Gregor Clegane into… well, whatever he became.”

Sansa snorted bitterly, “Indeed… my _dear friend_ , Maester Qyburn. He doesn’t think himself an evil man, but he does evil things. I once cared to make a distinction between men and their deeds, but it takes more energy than I have these days.”

Tywin studied the girl. She looked different in some way. In previous meetings he’d recognized her mask for what it was – a mask. Now it seemed woven into her being such that he couldn’t tell where Sansa Stark ended, and her armor began.

“My brother is back,” she spoke out of nowhere.

“You rescued him?”

“My sister did. She left no one alive to send a message to Castle Black. And the Knights of the Vale have seen to their ships and men along the coast. They cannot sail away. If they wish to survive, they must do so by besting us here, on dry land.”

“Which they may yet,” he offered, eyebrows raised.

She looked at him then, a curious expression on her face, “They will not. And none of them can survive to send word to Cersei of their defeat.”

“And why is that?”

Sansa pointed at the scroll still laying on the table, “Because we cannot march on the capital. We cannot storm the Red Keep. We will lose too many of our men in the process, and as Lord Varys warns, even if we are victorious, Cersei will simply destroy the city. All the inhabitants of King’s Landing will burn – men, women, children… do you wish to rule over a graveyard, my lord?”

“Then what do you mean to do?”

“I mean to enter the city the same way I did last time.”

Tywin snorted, “ _Last time?_ You were dragged there in shackles.”

She stared at him blankly for long, uncomfortable moments, before finally speaking again, “My brother was tortured. He did not betray our secret alliance, my lord, you should know that. I have met with Euron Greyjoy several times and—”

“He’s alive?! You captured him?”

“Yes… as I was saying, he likes to boast about the ways he hurt my brother. He enjoys taunting me... The man certainly enjoys inflicting pain, but even if he didn’t, Cersei insisted on how my brother be _treated_ during his captivity,” Sansa leaned back, sipping her tea, “We will need Euron alive. Despite his posturing, and his seeming recklessness, the man is a survivor, and survivors can’t help but survive, even when they don’t mean to.”

“You mean even when they jump onto the back of a dragon to kill its rider? Or face an undead man three times their size?”

Sansa snorted, but once again avoided addressing his comment directly.

Tywin worked his jaw back and forth, “How is your brother now?”

“As well as can be expected… but _changed_. Perhaps time will heal his wounds, but perhaps not.”

Her indifference broke but a moment as she stared into the tea in front of her, “All I wanted was to protect them,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Tywin didn’t think she expected him to reply, but he did, “You can never protect them all. All you can do is try; then hope you made the right decisions.”

She nodded mechanically, lips pursed in thought, “I have been pondering my mother’s house words of late. _Family. Duty. Honor. …_ As a child I remember thinking they’d got it backwards, honor should come first. I was too much like my father, I suppose. Or perhaps duty first; after all, I was raised to be a dutiful daughter, taught how to one day be a dutiful wife. But now? Now I understand… if we don’t protect _our family_ , who else will? If we fail in our duty, _our people_ suffer. But honor… all too often our honor is wielded against us. I still wish to be an honorable person, yet I will not hand my enemies a weapon to use against me. If I must lie, steal, and cheat to protect my family and my people, I will do so.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes, “Why are you telling me this?”

She shrugged then, as if the entire topic was inconsequential, “I suppose I thought you might understand this better than most. Sandor understands. Arya understands. But I think, my lord, you understand more than anyone. And I think it’s only fair that we know one another, if we are to marry. If we are to rule together.”

Tywin tilted his chin, “I agree, my lady. And our priorities are in alignment… my actions against my daughter may indicate otherwise, but the reality is she is only plummeting the realm into chaos… a chaos that will affect my family and my people in the Westerlands. If nothing else, it will affect my sons, who clearly are willing to die for you, Cersei’s enemy…” Now it was Tywin’s turn to lean back, and let his eyes glaze over, unfocused on the teacup he started into, “I sometimes wonder if I joined this war simply to save them…” he sighed, “the lives of thousands of my men, traded for two sons… sons who don’t even care about the future of their house.”

Sansa’s head cocked to one side, looking to Tywin as if he’d just made a great discovery. When she spoke, she did so slowly, and Tywin realized that it was _she_ that was having discovery – or perhaps an epiphany. “I used to wonder why my brother Robb went to war over my father’s death… Why he went to war for my sister and I, hostages of the Crown… So many lives lost, so much suffering and death… I convinced myself it must have been _pride_ that drove him… that he didn’t really sacrifice so much for his two little sisters…” she shook her head, “and perhaps it _was_ pride, but I’m less sure every day. Because the lengths I would go to in order to save those I love… I fear I might burn cities to the ground myself if it meant saving Jon and Arya… Sandor, Jaime, Tyrion, Brienne, Thoros, Tormund… It would give me no pride, but to save _those_ people, I would stop at nothing.”

Her eyes softened then, holding a sincerity that made his chest ache, “Does that frighten you, my lord?”

Tywin took a deep breath, pondering her question, “Only if I’m your enemy, which I intend never to be. Because someday I’ll be gone, and I wish to leave this world in peace knowing the mother of my children would stop at nothing to protect her family… our legacy.”

Her eyes dropped again, and he realized his blunder. Though she’d agreed to the marriage, it gave her no joy to think of having his children – or more specifically what they would do to create said children. Or perhaps there was more to it than that. Rumors of Littlefinger’s trial and execution had traveled far and wide… that among the evidence Sansa presented was a tale of a child – a babe sired by Littlefinger against her will. Obviously, this child did not survive, and Tywin wasn’t so stupid as to inquire with Sansa about the manner of its death. But he did wonder if the experience made her fearful of bringing another child into the world.

Tywin leaned back, causing the chair to creak, “Or perhaps we’ll both die before this war is through, and we’ll leave it to someone else to shoulder the burden of stabilizing and rebuilding the realm.”

Sansa snorted a laugh, “Good, because I could use a break.”

Tywin allowed himself a few amused snorts before all the direness of their situation seeped back into his heart and his countenance. Sansa seemed to mirror his transition. She nodded again, as if grounding herself back to reality, “I always knew it would come to this.”

“To what? War?”

“War, yes, but moreover, that it would come down to Cersei and me.”

“You do not know that—”

Sansa threw her head back and laughed, “I do not know how long Spring will last, nor how many more years I will live. I do not know whether I’ll be a good queen, or you a good king. But I know that despite all the men out there swinging swords, this war will be won or lost based on my ability to best Cersei in her own domains – lying, conniving, manipulating…”

A shiver ran down Tywin’s spine. As he contemplated the letter from Varys, he couldn’t find a plausible reason to disagree with the girl, though he desperately wished for one. He thought back to their defeat of the Mad King, only possible because Tywin convinced the man he was coming to his aid. The city gates were opened to Tywin’s army. Though apparently, even that wouldn’t have been enough had Jaime not chosen to protect the innocent instead of protecting his charge, his king. The ruse did work, but it had to be executed masterfully.

Tywin sat back again, causing the girl to meet his eyes, “I happen to have some relevant experience.”

Sansa nodded, “None must escape to send word…” she repeated her earlier caution.

“Agreed.”

**Sandor**

The little bird was troubled. He could tell by the way she clung to him as he moved inside her. Her fingers squeezed into the flesh on his back as if she expected him to float away. When his lips pressed to hers, she responded with frantic hunger. When he kissed her neck and cheek, he could taste the salt of tears. He buried his face in her hair, wishing he could fight her demons away. If only he knew what they were. The war? Certainly. Her eventual marriage? Most likely. The hostages at Castle Black? Her brother’s capture? All of these things clearly troubled her, and yet none of them seemed to be _the_ thing that made her seek his arms each night with a desperation he’d never seen in her.

Only he had started noticing peculiarities since Tywin Lannister arrived. It had quickly become common knowledge that Sansa and Tywin would claim the throne together. Whenever someone made mention of it, Sansa’s face became pale, her countenance pained. He didn’t know whether she feared returning to King’s Landing, feared the marriage, feared the responsibility that would be thrust on her, feared ruling beside the Great Lion, or if it were something else entirely, but each day he became more certain that it was the image of the Crown that was tormenting her so cruelly.

Despite his concerns he found himself spilling inside her with a grunt. He rolled off but she rolled with him, unwilling to break contact.

“What troubles you, girl?” he asked as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her tightly to his side.

“Everything,” she whispered.

He groaned, “Aye, but what most of all?”

She rubbed her nose against his chest, “Was there another way?”

He didn’t need to inquire; he knew she was asking if there was there another way to win the war other than by accepting Tywin Lannister’s help, and the terms that came with it.

“Wish there were,” he sighed, “the war still isn’t won, and that’s _with_ his men, and the Tullys.”

Indeed it wasn’t over. Battles waged daily in the lands around Winterfell. By night both sides ceased, and the next day they returned to formations. It was something about war that always confused Sandor – there would be temporary truces, lasting a night, or sometimes a sennight. It injected a false sense of civility into something that was not civil at all. Nothing civil about cutting men open, filling them with arrows, snipping off their heads.

When his attention returned to Sansa, he realized she was crying.

“Little bird,” he sat up, pulling her into his arms.

“I’m so tired, Sandor! And once again I’ll get no rest when this is through! I’ll have to go rule the whole bloody realm! Is this my punishment for wishing to be the Queen all those years ago? The Gods are finally answering my prayer now that I no longer want it? I _don’t_ want it.”

“I know, Sansa. I know,” he stroked her hair.

“I was supposed to be a lady, a mother… I was supposed to spend my days knitting and reading and singing… the hardest thing I was supposed to do was give orders to the household staff. And I know I sound like a spoiled little—”

“Shh… you don’t sound spoiled. You sound like someone who recognizes how unfair life is. It’s a bunch of shite, especially for you… but you have to find your happiness where you can… or manufacture it if you must.”

The door swung open and the little wolf waltzed in, unnoticing or undisturbed by the sight of the couple laying naked and entwined. She ignored them, walking straight to the side table to pour a goblet of wine after slamming the door behind her. “I’m so tired of this!” she screeched, “When do we get to kill that fucking squid?!” She glanced up for a split second, “Eww, put some clothes on!”

Sansa had pulled a fur over them when Arya entered, though Sandor would have preferred to make the little wolf see his hairy cock since she insisted on barging in uninvited and unannounced.

“You should bar your door by the way, anyone could walk in!” Arya spoke

“Aye, apparently,” Sandor groaned.

Sansa sat up, holding the fur over her chest, “We normally bar it, I just forgot, Arya. Now what are you going on about?”

“The squid. Crow’s Eye. When can I kill him?”

“You can’t. We will need him.”

“Well when we’re done needing him, I want to be the one to kill him!” she crossed her arms defiantly.

“I can’t promise that, either. Now what’s this about?”

“He needs to pay for what he did to Jon!”

“He will… did something happen?”

Arya crossed her arms and plopped heavily on the opposite side of the bed. Sandor stood up, “Close your eyes or don’t. I need some wine.”

“Ugh!” Arya covered her eyes with her hands, “No, nothing happened, but Jon isn’t himself. I don’t like it, Sansa!”

“It’s only been a couple weeks, Arya. You have to give him time.”

“What if he’s never the same? _You_ weren’t!”

“I thought you preferred me now over the way I was before.”

“I do, because I didn’t like you much before. But I liked Jon before.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “How kind of you.”

Arya ignored her sister’s sarcasm, “Anyway, what are we going to do about Jon?”

“There is nothing to do, Arya. He just needs time.”

“How much time?”

“Bugger this, give your sister a break, will you?” Sandor snarled as he yanked on his smallclothes.

He was – unsurprisingly – ignored.

Sansa sighed, “I don’t know how much time, Arya. Maybe weeks, maybe months… maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

Sansa rubbed her eyes, “Maybe he’ll never be quite the same. But I think he will, Arya. You just need to be patient with him”

She crossed her arms again, “I don’t like being patient.”

“No shit,” Sandor mumbled, stepping into his breeches.

Arya huffed loudly, “He shakes all the time. And he gets frustrated because he can’t hold his sword as well as before. Who knew a pinky was so important?”

Sansa nodded, “I’m sure he will get used to that, too. If Ser Jaime could relearn swordplay with his left hand, Jon can relearn swordplay without his pinky finger.”

“What if he _can’t_?” Arya whined.

Sansa rubbed her eyes again, “He will, Arya.”

“Yes, but what if he _doesn’t_?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Sansa shouted. Arya’s eyes widened as Sandor’s hand stilled on the wine carafe. Sansa rarely raised her voice, even with her frustrating little sister.

“I don’t fucking know!” Sansa shouted again as she sprung out bed, the furs dropping to the ground, “I don’t have all the answers and I can’t see the fucking future! I got it wrong sending you all to Castle Black, is that what you want to hear?! I’m not fucking perfect Arya! I’ve made mistakes, and I’ll make more mistakes, and I don’t need you in here making me feel like shit about it every time!”

Arya was uncharacteristically fearful as her older sister towered over her. Sandor felt pinned to the spot, waiting to see the outcome of the argument.

Arya held Sansa’s eyes as long as she could before lowering her head in submission, but when she did her eyes widened again, “Your…”

Sansa followed Arya’s eyes down to her own torso. Apparently, Arya had not seen her sister in the nude since returning to Westeros.

Sansa straightened her back, putting herself on full display for a few seconds before reaching for her robe, “Sometimes I pay for my mistakes, Arya, sometimes other people do.”

“Sansa, I…”

Her voice was back to normal, the firm, measured tone she used with subjects and retainers, “It’s fine, Arya. I’m worried about Jon, but there is nothing we can do other than be there for him when he needs our support and leave him alone when he needs space. Do you understand?”

Arya nodded.

“Good; now can I please have some privacy?”

“Yes,” Arya answered quietly before clearing her throat, “Goodnight, Sansa.”

Once she was gone Sansa’s head dropped again. As quickly as she’d appeared, the fierce queen was gone, and the little bird was back. Sandor was powerless to do anything but hold her as she wept.


	122. Hope never dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this and the following chapter aren't necessarily written in linear form. There is a lot happening simultaneously, and some POVs are written slightly out of order to make what is (hopefully) a more compelling plot/flow. Suggest you read without getting hung up on timelines.

**Varys**

Varys sighed loudly as he read the short message. He shouldn’t have arranged for one of his little birds to keep him updated on news in King’s Landing. He should have forgotten about Westeros and the never-ending war for the accursed Iron Throne. He should have put the whole damned continent out of his mind the moment he stepped foot onto Essosi soil. There was certainly plenty to occupy himself with helping the people here. Daenerys Targaryen left Essos worse than it was before her rise to power. She spoke of breaking the wheel, and Varys admired her for that. For a time he had supported her, as well as he could from afar, and while living in a city where people like Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish had their own spiders in every corner. Even when her madness first became evident, he thought she was still a better option than Joffrey Baratheon, or Tommen Baratheon who was only a puppet for Cersei and Tywin Lannister, then for the Tyrells. The Lannisters and Tyrells – families who coveted personal wealth above all else, no matter who they had to step on.

Varys tried to live his life without regret. He couldn’t predict the future. Betting on Daenerys Targaryen had been a gamble. How was he to know at the time that she’d be an even worse queen than Cersei Lannister? No, he didn’t truly regret backing Daenerys Targaryen before her descent into madness became undeniable. What he did regret was _not_ backing Sansa Stark the moment he found out she had killed her Bolton husband. With Varys’ connections and influence, with his knowledge and experience, he could have put her on the Iron Throne so easily. Littlefinger would have supported him, given the right assurances – assurances which would later be withdrawn. Dorne would have supported it as well – surely they’d rather see an honorable Stark than a mad Targaryen on the throne. The North, Dorne, the Vale… perhaps even the Riverlands.

Unfortunately, Varys knew the Lannisters wouldn’t simply hand over the throne; it would need to be taken. And that’s why Daenerys Targaryen seemed like the better bet than Sansa Stark. Daenerys had a large army, three dragons, and an appetite for battle.

Varys shook his head, recognizing his own mistake. For perhaps the first time in his life he had played the short game rather than the long game. Daenerys could seize the throne the moment her armies reached Westeros. It would take much longer for Sansa Stark to amass the force she needed. Alliances would need to be forged. Her people would need to survive the winter. Furthermore, her sights were set on the far north – the undead menace that Varys did not believe in until after the Long Night – when the rumors were too many and too consistent to be ignored.

After the Long Night, the North was even weaker, and Varys knew it was only a matter of time before Cersei sought her misguided revenge against Sansa and Tyrion. When he learned that Sansa Stark herself had died and been reborn, Varys’ heart told him she was the true queen. Once again, he was faced with an opportunity to support the intrepid northern queen, and once again he chose wrongly. Daenerys was nearly ready to launch her attack on the Crown. Sansa Stark’s people, by contrast, were not only weak, but had no thirst for war. They wished only for their hard-won independence to be maintained. At that time, Varys naively hoped he could one day be the person to broker peace between Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa Stark. 

It was during the same time that Varys’ interest in Tywin Lannister became magnified. Of course, the Great Lion was always an intriguing figure – holding so much power, yet only using it when absolutely necessary. The man could have taken the throne many times in his life, but never did. In truth, Varys had never trusted the man. He was a schemer. He was a man like Littlefinger and Varys himself. And schemers don’t trust other schemers. Schemers put their stock in guileless creatures like Sansa Stark, Tommen Baratheon, or the young Lord Arryn – people who can be manipulated by the people who pull the strings – the schemers. And manipulation isn’t always a bad thing… If Varys had put his support behind Sansa Stark, it wouldn’t have been to wage wars, conquer kingdoms… it would have been to bring peace and stability to the realm. The same reason he had put his faith in Daenerys Targaryen for so long.

But despite Varys’ inherent distrust of Tywin Lannister, something became apparent after Joffrey’s demise: Tywin was indeed scheming, indeed using Tommen as his puppet, but what he was trying to accomplish was in uncanny alignment with Varys’ own aspirations.

It shouldn’t have been surprising that a man who despised the wastefulness of war would try to steer the realm, through Tommen, into peace. During Tommen’s brief reign, Tywin and Varys came to something of an understanding. They’d never be friends, of course. Nor would they ever trust the other with their every move, every plan, every secret. But they came to understand that they both wanted peace. They also came to understand, though never spoke of it directly, that Cersei Lannister stood in the way of said peace. While Tywin tried pulling the strings one way, using the respect and authority he held in his grandson’s eyes, Cersei pulled a different way, leveraging a son’s unconditional love for his mother. Varys watched the game of tug-and-war go on for years, with young Tommen the poor puppet being yanked back and forth.

But there was another puppet master, in the form of the beautiful Margaery Tyrell who won Tommen’s heart with her feminine charm. The Tyrells were the most dangerous kind of schemers, because they disguised their pursuit of power behind seemingly genuine acts of benevolence and generosity. Despite knowing this, Tywin and Varys also knew the Tyrells were not warmongers. As long as Tywin could ensure he held just a bit more power than the Tyrells – that his armies were larger, his coffers more robust – he did not move against them. Nor did Varys, for Varys’ lifelong code had been to support those who were good for the realm, even if they weren’t purposefully acting in the best interests of the realm. As long as the Tyrells used benevolence as their method to secure power, the smallfolk would not suffer. That was enough for Varys to allow young Margaery to play the game.

No - Varys, Tywin, and Margaery’s scheming did not cause any harm to the realm. It was the fourth master – Cersei – who could claim that honor. Cersei was vindictive, power-hungry, and compassionless. She whispered in Tommen’s ear that the North’s independence was an act of war against the Crown. She warned him that Dorne was also plotting against them (which was true). She told him only the Crownlands’ and Westerlands’ loyalty was assured. She encouraged him to find and kill his cousin Shireen Baratheon. When Margaery wasn’t present, Cersei tried to convince the boy that she was a whore who didn’t love him, and only loved being queen... That once she birthed their heir, she’d try to eliminate Tommen, so she’d be free to marry whomever she chose – perhaps even one of her many Tyrell cousins.

Poor Tommen was torn between his mother’s mad yet convincing accusations, and the loving affection he received from Margaery. Truthfully, even Varys didn’t know if there might be some truth to Cersei’s suspicions. Margaery had learned from her grandmother, the Queen of Thorns, how to play the game. And Olenna Tyrell was a grand master when it came to that game. If only Tywin or Varys had anticipated just how desperate Cersei was by then. Unable to completely destroy her son’s fondness for Margaery, she simply eliminated the girl – and most of her family – in a more permanent manner. Perhaps the Gods did exist, after all, Varys mused, for they had punished Cersei by ripping from the world her own son – the only person left who she might honestly love.

Varys sighed, rubbing the scroll between his soft fingers as if he could elicit some magic woven into the very fabric of the parchment. He leaned back, sipping his sweet wine. It was a beautiful day in Pentos, but every day was beautiful here. If only he could enjoy it. If only he could shake the feeling of utter failure…

He thought back to the third chance he had to choose the right side…

Once Daenerys’ true nature had been completely revealed, Varys went directly to Tywin Lannister. He intended to offer the man honesty, because he was tired of speaking in riddles and vaguery. The Great Lion could bite off his head, Varys no longer cared. He could remember the conversation as if it happened yesterday.

_“My lord hand, you know why I’ve come…”_

_“Well, there is only one matter worth discussing at the moment – the woman sailing to Westeros with a hundred thousand warriors and three dragons, intent on burning or conquering every city on the continent until she makes her way to the throne.”_ The verbosity was unusual for the Great Lion, and it reflected his frustration with the situation.

_“Indeed. I wonder, my lord, do you plan on calling the North to your aid?”_

Tywin had snorted, a habit Varys found ill-refined, _“I do, though I don’t expect a response. Lady Sansa will not bring her people to the capital. Cersei might honor a temporary truce to try to eliminate Daenerys Targaryen – but do you think she would ever let Lady Sansa leave here alive?”_

Varys shook his head, _“No, my lord, and I believe Lady Sansa knows this. But perhaps she would answer the call of the Warden of the West, not the Hand to the Queen…”_

Tywin’s eyes widened, a rare instance in which he was unable to hide his emotions, _“Why are you telling me this?”_

That was the question Varys was waiting for. This was his chance to speak the truth. It would either cost him his head or cement for him a powerful ally in the form of the Great Lion of Lannister, _“Because, my lord, at the end of this war, there will be either a Lioness or a Dragon on the Iron Throne. And we both know neither is fit to rule.”_

Anger flashed in the lion’s eyes, but Varys continued, _“I had once hoped Daenerys Targaryen would make a good queen, but I was wrong. I had once hoped that King Tommen could reign over an era of peace, with the proper guidance from his grandfather and wife. I was wrong about that because I underestimated one player – we both know of whom I speak. Now, I have only one hope for the realm, and she is currently rebuilding her home for the second time after, if rumors are true, saving the entire continent… There is a saying in the North – perhaps you’ve heard it: ‘I know no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark’. It’s primitive, but powerful, don’t you think? It’s been spoken for millennia, anytime some foolish man thought he could do a better job ruling the largest kingdom than the Starks could. The saying has been revived, of late, and amended. Lord Lannister, hear me now and know that I speak truly, and that my opinion will remain unchanged through the war at our doorstep: ‘I know no queen but the Queen in the North, whose name is Stark’…”_

Varys had paused there, letting the magnitude of his statement sink in. Tywin hadn’t spoken for long moments, his eyes betraying a range of emotions from anger to denial to resignation. Eventually he stood from the chair he’d been sitting in through the entirety of their conversation. For Varys, the movement looked like a death sentence, but he continued to stand tall and proud, _“Am I leaving here with my head and an ally, Lord Hand? Or would you like to call in your guards?”_

Tywin had rounded his large desk. He stood face to face with Varys, _“I’ll be departing in two days to travel to Casterly Rock. The Queen has been advised. She understands the need to protect her homeland… the gold beneath my lands could fund Daenerys Targaryen’s war and reign for decades.”_

Varys had bowed his head, _“I understand, Lord Hand. I wish you victory in the battle to come. When it is opportune, I shall keep you appraised of the goings-on in the capital.”_

A nod had been his dismissal. Varys had walked out of the Hand’s solar knowing he and the Great Lion were on the same side, even if the man hadn’t said the words outright, as evidenced by the fact that Varys’ head was still firmly attached to his neck.

Varys and Tywin exchanged a few carefully worded missives during the time leading up to the battle at Casterly Rock. One of which was Varys’ congratulations on the alliance with Lady Stark. Another was Tywin’s appraisal of the girl – stern but fair, confident but not arrogant, and, most importantly, with the unwavering love and loyalty of her people. Of course, Tywin phrased the letter in such a way to suggest that Lady Stark would make a strong ally for the Crown (meaning Cersei) but Varys understood it was an endorsement of the girl who both he and Tywin hoped would someday sit the throne.

The third letter exchanged was more disturbing. Varys wrote to Tywin of the rumors that were abundant once the population of King’s Landing learned that the North had marched to Casterly Rock to join the Lannisters against the dragon queen. Many speculated that the strong and beautiful Wolf Queen would marry into the Lannister family through either Tywin or his son Jaime. Though Varys knew the rumor was unfounded, it pushed Cersei to a new point of madness. The paranoid queen further isolated herself, keeping in her company only the crafty Maester Qyburn, her monstrous guard, Ser Robert Strong, who never revealed his face, and a select few guards – mainly Blount and the Kettleblacks.

This became another moment at which Varys harbored the inconvenient feeling of regret, for some part of him always knew that if Cersei became truly mad, he’d resort to regicide. It would give him no joy – not like Littlefinger and Lady Olenna, who basked in satisfaction after ending Joffrey’s reign of terror – but he would do it, if that’s what was needed to save the realm. Unfortunately the opportunity to get close to Cersei was gone. Even the labyrinthian tunnels beneath the Red Keep were not an option, for Cersei knew of them and had sealed off any that led into Maegor’s Holdfast, where her apartments were located. Even Brance, the one Queensguard still loyal to Varys, was never alone with Cersei. Plus, Varys rarely spoke to the young man anymore, it had become too risky to be seen together. Coordinating a murder plot through cryptic notes delivered by servants loyal to Varys was not something he was willing to chance. Varys regretted not acting against Cersei while he still could.

The next time Varys had spoken face-to-face with the Lord Hand was the day of Lady Sansa’s trial. As usual, the man was careful with his words, but it was clear that he was angry at Cersei for going behind his back on so many matters – her alliance with the mad kraken, her loan from the Iron Bank, and her bounty on Sana’s life. Both men were resigned that Lady Sansa would die that evening, and that neither would live to see a worthy ruler sit the throne.

But then the unthinkable happened – somehow, someway, the slender woman who was raised to be a lady, not a warrior, bested the beast. Sansa and her men escaped with their lives only because of Tywin Lannister’s quick thinking and action during the chaos that ensued after the trial by combat.

At the time, Varys held hope that Tywin would be able to get to his daughter, but unfortunately his support of the Wolf Queen had severed that tie for good. Cersei treated her father with the same suspicion as she did Varys, only keeping him around because she needed his financial support and his army. The loan from the Iron Bank would not last forever, particularly with Cersei pouring every copper into her war against the North. Nor could she kill him, if she even wanted to, because then one of his sons could claim the Rock along with its gold and armies, and Cersei knew which queen they’d be loyal to.

So Cersei let her father live but kept him beyond an arm’s length away. If Tywin Lannister had ever considered killing his own daughter, Varys would never know. He only knew the man was now equally powerless to strike. As long as he was in King’s Landing, the Great Lion might as well have been de-clawed.

But while Cersei focused on Sansa Stark with myopic vision, she was oblivious to Tywin’s schemes. Cersei was too confident in her own power, and thus was blind to everything but her perceived enemy in the North. Extreme caution was still called for, but Varys and Tywin were able to communicate without raising alarms – after all, they were each still members of the Queen’s Small Council. And what a joke that was – she heeded no counsel except that offered by the wily Maester, or the crazy, one-eyed squid, or a select few of the bought-and-paid-for commanders of her sellsword army.

So Varys was among the very few who knew that while Cersei made her secret war plans with her squid, her father was making his own secret plans with his wolf. Varys felt a renewed confidence that the righteous would prevail. Lady Sansa has survived too many times, against all odds, to simply die in the upcoming battle. No – Varys had been sure that wouldn’t be her fate. If he was the type of man to put his feet up and relax, he’d have done so then. But he wasn’t. And that was how he learned of Cersei’s contingency plan: should the North prevail in the war, she would raze the capital before surrendering it. All the men who’d helped Qyburn manufacture the combustible substance or position it beneath key buildings in the city had been executed once their usefulness was fulfilled. Executed by Cersei’s loyal guards, which still, thankfully, included Brance.

Varys’ last meaningful act before fleeing the city that had been his home for decades was to pen a letter to Sansa. He knew she’d understand his warning. If she didn’t, she’d seek out the only person she knew who could be considered both a _friend_ and _handsome_ – Jaime Lannister.

Varys’ confidence had wavered, of course, after learning of Cersei’s secret cache of wildfire, but with his warning issued, he still felt that Sansa, with Tywin Lannister’s invaluable cunning, could achieve victory. At least, he felt there was a _chance_. And he lived on the beautiful promise that small chance represented.

Only that promise had shattered into a million pieces before his very eyes as he read the letter one of his little birds had delivered this morning. Winterfell had fallen. Jon and Arya Stark and Tyrion Lannister were among the dead, and, as Varys read, Sansa Stark, Tywin Lannister, and Jaime Lannister were being delivered to Cersei on a silver platter, by none other than the deranged Euron Greyjoy.

Varys read the short missive one more time before holding it above a candle. But just as the corner turned from white to brown to black, he pulled it away, stamping out the flame with his bare hand, relishing the brief pain it caused. He carefully folded the paper and placed it into the breast pocket of his robe. It would live there as his most cherished item, a constant reminder of the price of choosing the wrong side, of betting on the surer horse instead of the horse that deserves to win the race. 

With a sigh, Varys raised his goblet in salute. Unsure if anyone was listening, he whispered the only prayer that had a chance of being answered, “Grant them swift deaths, and the peace in the afterlife they never tasted in this life.”

Composing himself, he instructed a servant to bring his young protege to his sitting room. She soon entered with her usual half smile and confident gait. She was a fierce thing, more like the younger Stark sister than the elder, but with a certain wisdom uncommon in ladies her age. Still, she left something to be desired, something Varys couldn’t quite pinpoint. But the girl had a head on her shoulders and knew how to lead. She was no Sansa Stark, but at this point Varys would settle for anyone who was slightly saner than Cersei Lannister.

Varys smiled at her and gestured to the chair across from him, “My dear, I’m afraid I have received some unfortunate news. It would appear Cersei Lannister was triumphant in her war against the North.”

Her eyes widened. She knew how much hope Varys held for the realm under Sansa Stark and Tywin Lannister’s rule. She knew it meant being able to return home, rebuild what Daenerys had destroyed. She shook her head, “Lady Stark and Lord Lannister… they’re dead?”

Varys inclined his head, “Not yet, but soon.”

“And you can do nothing to stop it?”

Varys shook his head.

“Then what will you do? What will _we_ do? You said they were our last hope!”

Varys sighed, “My dear Arianne, hope never dies. Remember that. It’s time for a new plan…”

**Cersei**

> _My Queen,_
> 
> _The weeks have been grueling, but victory is finally ours – or should I say yours. Your father’s men thought to pursue and trap us against Winterfell, but instead we detoured to fall in with Lord Greyjoy’s men who made landfall at Ramsgate._
> 
> _We did not attack the castle directly, instead we traveled far to the south so that it was your father’s army that ended up being surprised. We had a significant numbers’ advantage and Lady Stark sent out part of her army to aid your father. It was too little, too late._
> 
> _Fierce battles were waged at the Dreadfort, Karhold, and Last Hearth. Karhold and Last Hearth eventually fell; the Dreadfort eventually surrendered under orders of their queen._
> 
> _Though the man is unusual, I must commend Lord Greyjoy’s ingenuity. He brought two hundred of the Northern hostages to Winterfell with his host when he departed Castle Black – all women and children. Though it gives me no joy to describe the sight, he had one hostage executed every hour to force the wolf to surrender. It took her to number sixty-seven to do so, as Euron’s man was about to slice open the throat of a girl that Lady Stark had grown up with – a girl who happens to be the cousin of the young Lord of the Moat. Without her surrender, we may still have prevailed, but the cost would have been great. Winterfell is indeed a strong fortress; and now it is being held by men loyal to the one true queen._
> 
> _I will provide the full reporting of events upon meeting with you in person. For now, expect us to arrive within a moon. There are some smaller castles yet to be secured; we will leave men behind for that task._
> 
> _Most of us will be able travel by ship since our numbers have been greatly reduced. Lord Greyjoy will have some gifts for you – ones I know you will be pleased to receive. As I know he is corresponding to you separately, I shall let him share that good news._
> 
> _Note that I have assumed command since Ser Ryger perished in battle. I only hope to serve you as admirably as he did._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Ser Malen Marin_
> 
> _Acting Commander, First Division of the Royal Army_

Cersei could barely taste the bitterness of the wine in over the sweetness of the words written in Ser Malen’s blocky print. He certainly had the hands of a soldier, not a maester, but Cersei couldn’t find it in herself to be offended by the smudged letters where quill lay against parchment too long or too heavily.

She folded the letter and tucked it into her dress, pressed against her heart. Updates from her men had been few and far between as the battles waged. Some days they seemed optimistic; others dire. She knew it wouldn’t be an easy victory once her father betrayed her, but it mattered very little to her. Cersei wouldn’t stop until the traitor was dead, because the traitor wouldn’t stop until _she_ sat the Iron Throne.

Cersei’s fists clenched every time she thought of her father’s hypocrisy and betrayal. He endlessly defended the Stark bitch, claiming she sought nothing but peace for her people. Even after she forged an alliance with the Vale, the man _still_ didn’t see that she was angling for the throne. When whispers of her meeting with Shireen Baratheon made their way to the capital, Cersei thought her father would _finally_ see the truth: why would Sansa align herself with Shireen Baratheon if not to take the throne? Shireen had few men, few ships, but she held Dragonstone, which meant she had a prime position from which to launch an attack on the Crownlands. Sansa probably planned on making Dragonstone her base of military operations.

Cersei had told Tywin this, but the man was immovable. Later, when her father’s men turned against her during the battle at the Moat, Cersei knew her father hadn’t been simply _duped_ by the Stark girl. He’d been conspiring with her all along against Cersei. How long had he been secretly supporting the Stark girl? Since the battle at Casterly Rock? Had Sansa’s _bravery_ against the dragon queen caused her father to become infatuated with her? Had his admiration intensified after she bested Ser Robert in the trial?

Or was it much earlier – when he realized that both his sons served the bitch? Had he chosen his two traitorous sons over the daughter who’d never been anything but loyal to their house?

Wondering was torture. Not knowing how long her father sat at her council table, offering his _advice_ , all while conspiring against his own daughter… not knowing what he had done for the Stark girl by leveraging his power as Cersei’s Hand.

Cersei’s hands were shaking with rage. She finished the wine in her goblet, forcing herself to find comfort in the fact that she would soon have her answers from the bitch’s own mouth. Whether it took a day or a year to break the girl, she would do it. Whoever was left of her loyal _wolf pack_ would be the weapon of her undoing. How long could the girl bear to watch her brother or sister be skinned alive, or the Hound roasted over a pyre? Not long, Cersei suspected, before Sansa would confess everything – all the details of Tywin’s plotting against Cersei, all the details of her and Tyrion’s murder of Joffrey. Cersei would make her confess every act of adultery she’d ever committed with Jaime, so Cersei would know just how deep his betrayal went.

What other things might Cersei learn? Perhaps behind her doe-eyed mask, the girl had been plotting against the Baratheon and Lannister families since her father’s body was relieved of his head. Perhaps she had conspired with the Tyrells, or with Varys, that bloated eunuch, who disappeared without a trace a fortnight ago. Cersei would see to it that he, too, was hunted down.

Cersei smiled to herself. No matter what the girl confessed, she’d not earn mercy for herself or her companions. Her people, perhaps… Cersei would extend some mercy to the North, show them what a _true_ queen looked like… but for those that betrayed Cersei – Tyrion, the Hound, her father – and for any of the wolves – they would be shown no leniency. Let everyone in the realm know what betrayal of the Queen would cost them. Let them have nightmares that would quickly douse any thoughts of treason in the future.

There was only one that Cersei knew she could not hurt… _Jaime…_ he deserved to suffer, no doubt, but Jaime’s pain was her pain. The bond they had as twins and lovers had never been completely severed. Jaime was weak-willed, Cersei had always known. He was easy to manipulate. The wolf bitch found some way to manipulate him. Her cunt? Probably. A sense of (misguided) honor? Definitely. A position of importance, of respect? Definitely.

In the capital Jaime had been known as the Kingslayer, the man without honor. As Queen, Cersei could have had the tongues cut out of anyone who uttered those terms. Perhaps that was a mistake. Cersei could admit that. Perhaps he had been more bothered by those utterances than he indicated. Perhaps the Stark girl was the first to insist he be treated with respect. Perhaps she soothed his shattered ego after he lost his hand. Cersei gifted him a golden hand so he could wear his Lannister pride at all times. Now she ground her teeth together, imagining the Stark girl touching his mangled limb, lavishing his deformity with sweet kisses to make Jaime believe he wasn’t a worthless, maimed knight.

Cersei shook away the disgusting image. She would know all soon enough. And while she couldn’t bring herself to physically punish Jaime for his betrayal, she would make sure he was there to see every pain inflicted on his queen, on his father, his brother, the giant blond bitch... whomever was left.

Cersei’s grin returned. She could barely purse her lips long enough to take a sip of wine. Finally, she was ready to find out just what – or rather, _who_ – Euron would be delivering to her in chains. Who she could use against the wolf queen.

Cersei unrolled the second scroll gingerly. She would read it slowly, savoring every word.

> _My beautiful queen,_
> 
> _I won’t delay in delivering glad tidings: I have won the North for you._
> 
> _The battles were fierce. These northerners do not back down easily, I will say that much for them. We won some, we lost some, but ultimately were able to capture Last Hearth, Karhold, White Harbor, and a slew of other coastal keeps. Winterfell and the Dreadfort would not fall, but we were able to use her Stark honor against her, just as you predicted._
> 
> _Thirty thousand remains of your and my armies. A fraction of what it was, but more than is left of the northern force. We will return to you by ship as soon as possible. We’ve been gathering provisions for the journey, but the stores at Winterfell and the Dreadfort were low. Expect us to arrive hungry and thirsty, but don’t worry – in exchange for your hospitality I will offer gifts which are priceless to you… Allow me to enumerate them now, so you may have something to look forward to._
> 
> _-One hound, reduced to a big dog on a short leash._
> 
> _-One knight, still missing his right hand, but no worse for wear._
> 
> _-One old lion, relieved of his claws._
> 
> _-One red wolf, who hasn’t been nearly humbled enough. I trust you’ll remedy that._
> 
> _Perhaps you’ll also take pleasure in learning of some of the notable deaths:_
> 
> _-One blond beast of a woman, died defending the one-handed knight._
> 
> _-One ser of the Westerlands, died defending his lion lord._
> 
> _-One lord bearing the emblem of a mailed fist. Ironic, since he lost his arm before falling._
> 
> _-One dwarf, a head shorter than usual._
> 
> _-Two dark haired wolves, died during a foolhardy (and failed) rescue mission._
> 
> _There are others that would be noteworthy, I’m sure, if I knew them as anything but a rotting corpse on the muddy ground._
> 
> _My men at Castle Black will depart for the capital at once, with hostages in tow. I’ve told them not to harm the northerners (much). I’m sure you have some ideas as to how they can be put to good use._
> 
> _Meanwhile, my men and I shall embark on the journey to King’s Landing. We will march to the eastern coast, deal with whatever is left of the Northern army there, then sail into Blackwater Bay, hopefully to much jubilation. I’ll make sure the wolf bitch doesn’t get lonely during the journey._
> 
> _I look forward to receiving your gratitude in person._
> 
> _Until then,_
> 
> _Euron_

Just as she forgave Ser Marin’s unrefined penmanship, she could forgive Euron his arrogance; after all, he had earned it. The man had come in quite handy. He demanded only a marriage in return, and she would give him that. Of course, it wouldn’t be a particularly _long_ marriage, but a Lannister always pays her debts. She was disappointed to learn that Tyrion and the Stark siblings would never receive what they were owed, but Cersei would just have to make it up with the rest of them.


	123. Hatred and Sorrow

**Alysane**

Val turned to look at her once more before they were tugged ungently toward the southern gates of Castle Black. Their _captors_ went ahead to speak with the men holding the castle.

“This better fucking work,” the Wildling mumbled under her breath.

“It will… care to place a friendly wager?”

Val’s pretty eyes narrowed, “Perhaps…”

“Bragging rights to whoever kills the most squids.”

“I want in,” a gruff voice whispered behind her.

Alysane could only roll her eyes at the crazy Wildling, “Fine, _Lord Giantsbane.”_

Val shook her head, “ _Bragging rights?_ That’s it?”

Alysane shrugged, “Well I haven’t any gold on me at the moment, and I happen to know both of you love to brag, so…”

Val suppressed a chuckle, “It’s _Tormund_ that likes to brag. I just state facts, she-bear.”

Alysane rolled her eyes again, “You want in or not?”

Val shrugged, “Fine. I’m going to win anyway.”

Alysane started to smile but extinguished it before anyone could take notice, “We’ll see.”

Thoros, donning his new-to-him armor, turned to face his captives, “You’re about to be reunited with your kinfolk. If you don’t give us any problems, we won’t give you any problems. You give us problems, you’ll meet the gallows.” His eyes landed on Alysane for only a moment.

The gates were opened, and they were once again ordered to march. Ironborn lined up to spit at them as they walked by. Alysane clamped her bound hands together to keep from strangling any of them.

She walked past Thoros where he stood alongside the apparent commander of the Ironborn. She listened but did not dare look.

Thoros spoke in a clear but unrefined voice, what one would expect from a sellsword, “They’re mostly from Last Hearth and the Dreadfort. Euron says they’re not to be harmed, orders of Queen Cersei – at least until she determines whether they will have any value to her.”

“And if they don’t have value?”

“Then I don’t give a shit what you do.”

Alysane could practically see him shrugging indifferently. She’d gotten to know Thoros, and even begrudgingly respected him. Few men could outdrink her. She looked forward to teasing him someday soon about how it felt to be _Ser Foren_ of the Golden Company.

But that would have to wait. They needed to pull this off first… she dared to look around and take measure of their enemy. As expected, there weren’t many Ironborn here. With mostly women, children, and the elderly as hostages, it only took a few dozen men to keep everyone in line. Alysane had learned from Jon that most of the fighters who’d accompanied their refugees north had been killed before Euron and his men left for Winterfell. It made her sick to think of it, but it also fed her rage. Rage she would very soon unleash.

_Alright, time to put on a little mummer’s show._

Alysane stumbled and fell into the snowy mud, whimpering as she did. A nearby guard lifted her up roughly and she cried out when she put weight on her right foot, “Please! My ankle!”

“You walked all this way… you can make it to the barracks!”

“Please, I twisted it this morning and now it’s worse!”

The guard backhanded her using half his strength, and she let herself fall to the ground.

 _Ser Foren_ pushed his way through the hostages, “Not her, you shit-for-brains!”

“Why?”

“Cause she’s valuable, remember?”

“So she says.”

“What’s going on?” the Ironborn commander Thoros had been speaking with made his way over.

Thoros spoke, “This one says she’s the Lady of House Mormont”

The guard mumbled inaudible disagreement.

Thoros huffed his displeasure, “If there’s even a _chance_ she’s Alysane Mormont, then she’s valuable…” he turned to face the commander, “You know how many men she felled with this axe?” Thoros pointed to Alysane’s favorite weapon, tucked into his swordbelt. “If she ain’t the she-bear than I don’t know who is, and we have strict orders from Queen Cersei via Euron to make sure all valuable prisoners are treated well. Do you have a maester here?”

The commander nodded and pointed toward a tall tower.

Thoros nodded then beckoned over two other guards, “Take her to the maester. See that her ankle is treated. She is _not_ to be harmed, understand?”

The men nodded and helped Alysane limp across the courtyard.

As soon as they were inside the building, they ran up the stairs until they found what seemed to be the maester’s office. With a nod to his companions, one of the guards knocked. Answering the door was a tall man bearing the Ironborn squid on his leather armor. He didn’t get a chance to speak one word before the guard’s sword plunged into his throat and up through his skull. He died instantly, and the guards eased his body down soundlessly. The only other person in the room was the chubby maester whose eyes were as big as saucers. Alysane held a finger to her mouth. He nodded.

She approached him before speaking in a low voice, “Hello Maester Tarly. Nice to see you again.”

“Lady Mormont.”

“Are you alright?”

Samwell nodded, “You?”

“Aye. Oh, Jon Stark says ‘hello’.”

Samwell smiled, “We’ve heard nothing about the war.”

“I’ll catch you up later. No time for that now. You have ravens here?”

He nodded.

“Good. I’ll need to send one, once the fighting starts.”

Sam’s eyes widened again, “Fighting?!”

Alysane’s answer was a smile.

Sam shook his head in disbelief, “Do you have the message to be sent? And to what destination?”

Alysane held out the scroll, “To King’s Landing. Oh and I’ll need the Winterfell bird later! Damn, I almost forgot that!”

Sam read the yet-unsealed scroll before looking at Alysane with shock then appreciation, “Bold plan.”

Alysane smiled proudly, “That’s our queen.”

Sam’s eyes brightened. It was clear he, like everyone else, was fond of the queen. Alysane remembered thinking Tyrion was in love with her for a time, but eventually realized he looked at her like a sister. Or mother. Or dear friend. It was hard to tell; the young queen seemed to be many things to her people.

Alysane shook away the thought. She didn’t want to think about Tyrion, because that led to thinking about where he was, which led to despair. They’d be reunited someday, or they wouldn’t.

Alysane nodded at the note still in Sam’s hands. At seeing her gesture he hastily rolled up the parchment and sealed it with the wax stamp of the Night’s Watch, “How will I know when to send it?”

“I told you – when the fighting starts.”

“How will I know when the—”

The sound of shouts and clashing metal drifted in.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss it!” Alysane pointed at the two guards, “See him to the roof and keep him safe! Keep watch for any archers when you send the bird. If anyone breaches this tower, kill the other birds!”

The men pulled their bows off their shoulders and followed the portly maester up the stairs.

Alysane flew out the door and collided with a squid. She bounced off of him into the dirt. She had already pulled her dagger from the back of her breeches when the man was struck dead with an arrow.

Alysane’s eyes followed the arrow’s path back to Val, who smiled and shrugged. Alysane shouted, “He was mine! No fair.”

Before she knew it was happening, Thoros was lifting her to her feet, “Did you get to the maester?”

“Aye, the guards are with him. They know what to do.”

Alysane took a moment to look around. The Ironborn that tried to flee through the gate in the Wall were being massacred. At the South gate, the same was happening. Realizing escape wasn’t an option, a group of them had formed a shield circle and were battling their way to the turret – no doubt hoping they’d be able to bunker down there and send out a raven to call for help.

Alysane widened her stance as Thoros handed over her axe while holding his own sword tightly.

Staring only at the approaching circle, Thoros spoke in a low voice, “Plenty for both of us.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Alysane grinned back at the bald priest as she took three large steps forward and swung her axe hard, splintering a shield while her left hand brought her dagger up into the unlucky man’s armpit. With a kick to wrench her axe free she moved onto her next target, deflecting his sword at the last moment then swinging at him with passionate anger.

The next man she took out at the knees, while Thoros finished him off.

As Alysane was about to make her next strike, the man’s head split nearly in two with an axe that had been thrown. Some feet away Tormund’s voice bellowed out, “Five!”

_Guess I have some catching up to do._

**Sansa**

Sansa stared at the message. Seven words, with seemingly vague meaning, but they conveyed so much. It was the code from Alysane that their people had succeeded at Castle Black. To anyone who intercepted the raven they’d see only: _Crow’s Eye, We’ve received your instructions. Understood._

Sansa smiled as she held the letter out for Sandor to read. He shook his head while fighting a smile, “Told you not to worry.”

“It’s my job to worry. I just wish Tyrion were here to read this.”

Sandor put his arm around her shoulders, “All will be well, Sansa. Keep your eyes on what’s ahead, what’s in front of us. We each have our part to play.”

Sansa nodded, wondering, not for the first time, where Sandor had gotten such wisdom and peace. In the past he’d be more likely to tell her that everything was fucked – brutal honesty, he’d call it. Sansa now looked back and saw it was pessimism. She couldn’t blame him, he had much reason to think the worst of the world and its inhabitants, but she liked _this_ Sandor… who offered reassurance, comfort, and who believed that somehow, things would work out well.

She offered him a deep kiss, hoping it expressed her gratitude and love. When he groaned in response she knew, if nothing else, it had expressed her limitless lust.

Breaking the kiss she clasped his hand, “Sup with me tonight? I must go update Tywin. I shan’t be long.”

Sandor nodded, but some of his happiness left. He was as accepting of her _betrothal_ as she could possibly hope he’d be, but it didn’t mean he liked thinking of Tywin and Sansa in those terms.

Despite assuring herself that Sandor would be able to set aside his male instincts, she worried deeply and often that someday Sandor would simply find it more than he could bear. The idea of him leaving her put a hollow ache in her stomach. She feared that possibility as much as she feared losing the war.

Before the battles began, her upcoming marriage to Tywin seemed like a distant, abstract thing. They both had to survive and maintain their alliance through the war. At times it seemed impossible that everything would fall into place – winning the war, claiming the throne, _surviving…_

Now that day was in sight. The riskiest part was before them, but if all went according to plan, they might be a few short weeks away from claiming the throne together, then marrying. Only a few more weeks as Sansa Stark of Winterfell, Queen in the North, and only the North. Partner and lover of Sandor Clegane, and only Sandor Clegane.

She couldn’t stand the idea of him being hurt. And he would hurt, no matter that he understood how necessary the alliance was. No matter that he was there for those first talks with Tywin Lannister – that he saw first-hand that Tywin would not lend his army and ships unless he received Sansa in return. Sandor could understand it and accept it, but he’d never like it. He had told her as much, and she couldn’t expect anything more from him.

Taking a few deep breaths, she pushed away the worry and doubt. _One battle at a time_ , she reminded herself.

She found Tywin in the guest chambers he had been appointed. Her stomach dropped when she saw he was not alone.

The two men greeted her – Tywin with a polite nod, Jaime with an empty glance and a twitch of his lips that might have been an attempt at a smile.

It broke her heart to look at Jaime these days. She knew he was devastated by his loss. In truth, Sansa was devastated, too, but she knew how to hide her grief well. Only Sandor was allowed to see it.

Realizing she’d been standing in the threshold, silent, she finally spoke, “I just wished to tell you that I received a message from Lady Mormont. Their mission was a success. There are no details, as expected, but I hope this means all our people are safe.”

Tywin dipped his head in acknowledgement, “So we should be preparing our departure?”

She nodded. Tywin’s eyes flicked to Jaime. She knew the meaning behind the subtle motion.

Sansa slowly moved to the table where the two men sat. She opened her mouth to speak, but the right words didn’t come forth. Instead she kneeled, grasping Jaime’s hand in both of hers.

“Jaime… you don’t have to come. It will be easy enough to say something happened – a festered battle injury, a rash young guard you provoked. Truly, I think it’s best—”

“Don’t, Sansa. Don’t say it’s best if I stay here…” his tone was harsh, but then he took a deep breath, “I know you’re worried about me. I’ll be fine. I have to be fine, because it’s what—”

“I _know_ you will, but perhaps it’s too soon—”

Jaime lifted a finger to silence her, “The world doesn’t wait for us to be ready, Sansa… for us to heal. You know this better than anyone. What you had to face after…” he shook his head, “I’ll be fine. And I’ll be ready. It’s not that I _want_ to face her, Sansa… I _need_ to. If there’s a chance to hear _why_ … why she’s done all the hateful, spiteful things she’s done… then I need to try.”

“I know. You want to see if there is some part of her left that isn’t a monster,” Sansa spoke in a low voice, but was sure Tywin heard. She didn’t care. She hated Cersei with a passion that dwarfed all those who came before her – Daenerys, Petyr, Joffrey… sometimes she was certain she hated Cersei more than even Ramsay, as illogical as that sounded.

Jaime exhaled and nodded.

Sansa sighed, “I won’t tell you to stay here. You have the right to come… but I hope you realize that whatever you find will give you no peace. Answers, perhaps, but not peace. I know this, Jaime. I’ve known men who were true monsters – who were pure evil at the very fabric of their being. And I’ve known men who were monsters, but who had some miniscule shred of humanity in them. I can’t tell you which is easier to accept, easier to forgive... A monster does not know he's a monster… perhaps that’s easier…”

Jaime met her eyes. His were so sad, so pitiful. It was odd to think he had lived almost twice as long as her, for in this moment he looked like a child who’d finally discovered the world isn’t perfect. He looked like a little boy needing comfort. His bloodshot eyes begged her to offer some answer, some words that would make everything make sense. She wondered how many times she had looked this way, though few people ever saw it. Sandor had seen it. Theon had seen it. Joffrey and Ser Meryn had seen it, when she was forced to look upon her father’s head on a pike.

_All dead except for Sandor. No one alive to know I still have a heart. That I still mourn, that I still hurt._

Nothing more could be said. She could not offer the words Jaime needed, because those words didn’t exist. Instead she rose, cupped his neck, kissed the crown of his head, and offered a poor substitute, “You’re not alone, Jaime.”

Before she walked away, he squeezed her hand and offered a weak but gracious smile. She knew the strength it took to make even that small gesture, so she returned it in kind before offering a parting nod to Tywin.

**Tywin**

It tore at Tywin’s heart to see his eldest son like this. He could empathize with his suffering even if he didn’t share it or even understand it, in this case. So Tywin simply watched his normally jovial son walk around in a trance these past few weeks. Initially, Jaime expressed his rage and sorrow on the battlefield. But eventually they ran out of enemies.

Their next moves must be swift. Even if perfectly executed there was great risk. Tywin, Sansa, and the others poured all their energy into planning every single detail, into considering every potential move of their opponent. It was like a game of cyvasse; they couldn’t simply anticipate the next move, they needed to be thinking about the next _five_ moves.

It made for a welcome distraction from the sorrow, though by evening Jaime often made his way into his father’s quarters. They didn’t talk, they just sat together. Sipping wine or tea, eating (though Jaime had little appetite), and simply being in each other’s presence. It was odd for Tywin. He was unaccustomed to having companions unless they were actively serving a purpose – a guard, a maester, a commander, an advisor.

But with Jaime he just sat, because it was all that Jaime had the energy to do.

They were doing just that – sitting – when Sansa entered Tywin’s chambers.

Living in Winterfell for weeks now, Tywin had ample opportunity to observe his future wife and queen. Her brain was magnificent. Her sense of protectiveness was like that of a true lioness (though he dared not call her that). Her courage was hardly matched by the fiercest knights in the realm.

Yet it was ultimately her _grace_ that might be her defining attribute. She took nothing for granted. She was kind toward her people. She was like a mother to them all, even if it sometimes wasn’t apparent in her frosty exterior. Her tone was often cold, emotionless. Her eyes were often vacant. Her decisions sometimes harsh. Yet in moments like this, when someone needed her, she was always there, and she exuded warmth so radiantly it was like witnessing a battle between her true nature – the woman she was meant to be – and the person she was forced to become. When she pressed her lips to Jaime’s head, something broke inside Tywin, though no one looking from the outside would notice. He hadn’t seen such a display of genuine love since his own Joanna kissed her children – her sweet son, her precocious daughter.

_Gods, what would Joanna think if she could see this? Her twins on opposite sides of a war… causing each other deep pain._

Tywin hated Cersei for causing him to choose one child over the other. Or rather, he _wanted_ to hate her, but he couldn’t. It made him feel weak to harbor any compassion for his daughter, but hearing Jaime speak, he knew he wasn’t alone.

He’d been putting off this conversation long enough. Long minutes after Sansa left his room, he rose from his chair, offered an awkward pat on Jaime’s shoulder, then walked toward the main keep.

He found Sansa in her solar with, unsurprisingly, the Hound. They had only been talking, not engaged in some act of passion, but Tywin couldn’t help but sneer at the man. It was irrational, he knew. He was too old for jealousy, and certainly in no position to be covetous of a woman who’d loved another before Tywin ever made his claim on her.

After a dark glare, the Hound tilted his head, “My lord.” He left without a backward glance.

Sansa sighed and motioned for Tywin to sit. As he lowered himself into the chair he began speaking, “I’ll get right to the point. I’ve come for assurances.”

“Regarding?”

“Regarding Cersei.”

Sansa’s cheeks reddened, “More specifically?”

“The manner of her death… her execution… if we are successful, that is.”

Sansa laced her fingers, “You believe it should be quick. Painless.”

“Yes, and I believe it is fair to make such a request.”

“A request, or a demand, my lord?”

Her words stilled him. Was he not entitled to this much? Had he not come to her aid in this war, at great cost and risk to his own people? Had he not agreed to let her continue her _affair_ with the Hound after they wed?

He took a deep breath to calm his building ire, “Let’s not get hung up on semantics. I have a right to make such a demand, or such a request.”

“Perhaps, but it’s not your decision to make.”

Tywin snorted, “How so? She’s my daughter.”

“Indeed, which is why you are not the right person to determine whether she is owed mercy.”

Tywin ground his teeth, “I’m not saying she deserves mercy, and certainly not that _you_ owe it to her.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He straightened his doublet, “That I am asking it for her, nonetheless.”

“Noted. Anything else?”

Tywin couldn’t believe her insolence, “You seem to be forgetting who came to save your beloved kingdom.”

“You seem to be forgetting who we needed saving from.”

Tywin went to protest but she beat him to it, “Moreover, don’t pretend you came to our aid out of the goodness of your heart. You’ve already confessed your true motives – that you can no longer sit by while a mad woman destroys the realm. You expect my gratitude? I’ve already given it to you by promising to rule by your side, to marry you. I don’t want the throne. You don’t want your daughter to suffer. We can’t both get what we want, can we?”

Tywin stood, pointing a finger at her, “You know how many people would kill for the throne, who _have_ killed for the throne?”

She stood and reflected his stance, “I’m not one of them, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I could leave here, sail back to the Rock.”

“Indeed. And I could _stay_ here. My brother is safe, my sister is safe. My people are safe. The only reason I’m still going to the capital is because I gave _you_ my word that I’d help take the Crown, put an end to Cersei’s reign.”

“You contradict yourself. You want Cersei to suffer, yet you say you’d be content to stay here… to sit back and let her continue to rule.”

“Of course I’d be content to do so! It would mean no more risk for my people. No more risk for me. What we’re doing is _risky_ , or have you forgotten?! If I’m going to risk more than I already have, then yes, I will see to it that Cersei gets all she is due.”

“What she’s _due_? You sound like Cersei right now!”

Sansa slammed both fists on the desk. Her lips curled into a sneer, “Forget about what happened to me as her ward. Forget about her standing by while Joffrey executed my father. Forget about everything that happened before and during the Five Kings War… that’s all behind me... But she put a bounty on me after I fought to protect her homeland. She had me brought to the capital and tortured for days! She made me fight a fucking undead giant! And believe it or not, I can get past all that. Because it was _personal_. It was _me_ she was hurting, even if her reasons were baseless. But now she has waged a war against my _people_. She had _my brother_ captured and tortured! She insisted on this war for no reason, no reason at all! Look at the lives it has cost, Tywin! And you want me to show her _mercy_?”

What could Tywin say to that? Sansa deserved her revenge, but how could Tywin be a party to this?

He shook his head, defeated, “Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

She was panting heavily after delivering her heated argument, but she sat now, seemingly trying to compose herself, “Nothing you can say, no. But I’ll offer this: if Cersei proves to have a shred of kindness… if I see even a _hint_ of humanity in her when we arrive at the capital, I will honor your request. Let Cersei decide her own fate.”

Tywin sighed and nodded, “I understand.” He turned to leave, but once his hand was on the door, he knew there was more to say. Despite his concern for his daughter, it was impossible to ignore the suffering she had caused, most of which Sansa Stark had been the recipient of, “For what it’s worth, Sansa… I’m sorry for all the pain she has caused you and your people. That you’re willing to give her even a chance for mercy is a testament to the fact that you are indeed a worthy queen.”

He strategically left her with that thought. Perhaps that Stark honor would compel her to be merciful, after all.


	124. The North Remembers

**Arya**

“You’re a prisoner of war, stop enjoying this so much,” Addam mumbled.

Arya straightened her face. She knew how to play a part; Addam needn’t have worried. They hadn’t arrived yet and until they did no one was close enough to see if her mouth was curved into a smile instead of a scowl.

“I can’t believe your daddy agreed to this,” Arya muttered under her breath.

She could practically hear Addam roll his eyes. Arya had noticed that Tywin Lannister treated Addam better than his own sons, and that Addam looked to Tywin with something like reverie in his eyes. So she once teased Addam about it, that Addam wished Tywin were his father. When Addam got annoyed she told him not to worry, Tywin wished Addam was his son, too.

This time Addam ignored the jape, much to Arya’s disappointment, “The positional advantage is rivaled only by your Moat.”

“Still… it’s a risk, and you know what your daddy says about unnecessary risk.”

“All of this is risky, it’s war,” he whispered firmly, again ignoring her goading.

“You know what I mean. Mind you, I’m not complaining. I can’t believe Sansa let me come; I can’t believe the old lion let _you_ come.”

Addam turned to look at her in disbelief, “Stop talking like that.”

“Like what?” she asked with feigned innocence.

“Like I’m a little boy, needing my _father’s_ permission. I’m a knight, he is my lord; it’s my job to do his bidding; I’m his man.”

“That’s why I’ll never be someone else’s man. And definitely not when I’m _your_ age.”

“How old do you think I am?” Addam asked incredulously.

Arya shrugged, “Six and thirty?”

She turned and noticed Addam was blushing. He didn’t do that often. He was usually composed, though it seemed that Arya, Sansa, and Tyrion could always find a way to make him blush. Tyrion with a dirty jape, Sansa by being _lovely_ and Arya by teasing.

“Sorry,” she offered, thinking she’d insulted him by over-estimating his age.

Addam’s mouth tightened, “I’m one and forty.”

“Oh,” Arya said. Then realized her blunder. If six and thirty was old in her eyes, then tack on another five years and he probably thought she found him ancient. She should have tried to placate him, but she was never any good at that. Instead she giggled, then quickly suppressed it, “Then you’re _definitely_ too old to be someone else’s man… but the good news is you look younger than you are!”

Addam tried to maintain his frown but couldn’t, “Well, now I know why your _big sister_ let you come…”

“Why?”

“To get some peace and quiet for a change. Do you ever stop talking?”

Arya thought about it, “The Hound would say not, but I learned to keep my mouth shut while I was in Braavos.”

He arched a brow, “Ever think of practicing your lessons?”

Arya passed him a glare. When she opened her mouth to speak again, she was cut off by shouting at the front of the column, “Scouts ahead.”

All jest was instantly gone from Addam’s voice, “Caged wolf, remember?”

Arya nodded.

Their group stood still for about fifteen minutes, though perhaps it only felt that long to Arya, before she heard what sounded like two riders approaching. They seemed to stop far ahead of the column, though Arya couldn’t see. Damn her stunted height.

“Who goes there?” one of the riders shouted.

“Isn’t it obvious? You were told to expect us and give us passage.”

“I’d like to hear it from you, squid.”

Arya could hear their _captor_ groan loudly, “Donal Drumm, of Old Wyk. I was charged with holding Castle Black by Lord Greyjoy. After the wolf surrendered the North, I was charged with leading the prisoners to the capital, to Queen Cersei. But you know all this.”

“Why didn’t you sail to the capital?”

“Because the fucking wolf bitch had our ships burnt when she still thought she could win the war. Not just at Eastwatch but along the coast. What’s left of the fleet is what Euron is using.”

Arya wanted to snigger. The Umber bastard was good.

The rider seemed to be considering his words, “Aye, we were told to expect you. Didn’t know it would be this many, though.”

“Had more prisoners and more of our men join from Last Hearth and the Dreadfort. Trust me, it’ll be worth your lord’s trouble.”

“And why is that?”

“That’s for your lord’s ears and your lord’s ears only.”

Silence again, then, “Fine. Lord Frey will host your commanders and officers. Your prisoners and your army may cross but shall continue directly through. Once they are camped on the other side, our lord will have provisions sent. See to it that Queen Cersei and _King Euron_ hear of our generosity.”

“Oh, they are well aware of your lord’s generosity, and his loyalty. It will be repaid starting today.”

Addam leaned in and whispered so only she could hear him, “If it should be our fate, it will be an honor to die by your side.”

Arya kept her eyes straight ahead as she tilted her head and responded, “Indeed. But not today.”

She lowered her head to keep her smile hidden. It was time to put on a face she knew too well.

**Addam**

The procession was halted when _Donal Drumm_ insisted on delivering his message to Walder Frey directly. Frey had been standing upon the ramparts, watching their group being led down the bridge, wearing a devious grin. Some of his men taunted the prisoners with words; most just with their eyes.

“Bring them here!” Donal called over as old Walder, flanked by six of his guards, slowly descended the steps.

The two guards nearest Addam yanked he and Arya away from the others and brought them to stand before the lord of The Twins.

Walder eyed them as if bored, “Am I to know who they are?” he croaked. He pointed at Addam, “This one looks like he could be a Tully, but that can’t be.” He pointed at Arya, “This one…” his eyes narrowed for a moment, as if recognizing something his brain did not, “is just a girl dressed like a boy. Is this some type of jape?”

Donal smiled with the smug arrogance that defined the Ironborn, “It is a _gift_ , from your queen and soon-to-be king. House Frey has proven its deep loyalty to the Crown, when you put down the traitor, Robb Stark, and when you notified the Queen of her father’s betrayal. She is repaying that loyalty with a priceless gift… one she knows you will cherish and exploit to its full potential.”

Donal let the words hang in the air, and Addam watched as their meaning finally permeated Frey’s old but still sharp mind. “Arya Stark…” the name came out as a whispered revelation.

“Indeed. Her _companion_ is Lord Lannister’s most valued commander, Ser Addam Marbrand.”

Frey stepped toward Arya, disbelievingly. Arya returned his incredulity with a sneer.

The old man’s countenance broke into a burst of hoarse laughter, “Your sister had ice in her eyes when I met her. Yours hold nothing but fire, _my lady_.”

Arya’s lip curled but she did not speak.

“What of the bastard?” Frey turned to Donal.

“Dead.”

“And the Ice Queen?”

“Soon to join him,” Donal smiled.

Frey turned back to Arya, “The last wolf. My, my… Tell me, Lady Stark, are you as tough as that sister of yours?”

“Untie me and find out,” she snarled.

“Ooh!” Frey faked a look of fear as he turned to his men, “Watch out lads, this one _bites_.”

“Aye, and I’ll bite the throat out of whichever of your decrepit kin you try to wed me to. So let’s skip the ceremony, shall we?”

“Sounds like you’re asking to be put down, girl.”

“If you were smart, it’s what you’d do… then again I’ve heard nothing to indicate you possess a brain…”

Frey threw his head back and laughed, “I like this one! Perhaps I’ll let my grandsons fight over her… they’ll all want the chance to be the one to break the last wolf!”

Frey turned to Addam, slapping him on the cheek roughly, “If you behave yourself, I’ll let you watch.”

Addam didn’t have to pretend to be troubled by the old man’s words… the confidence he felt as they approached the Crossing was hard to maintain within the walls of the castle. If they didn’t pull this off, Arya would no doubt be made to suffer, even if the rest could look forward to swift deaths. His mouth went dry and he felt suddenly light-headed.

Frey missed nothing, “You look pale, Ser. Is it your own fate that you fear? Or have you grown fond of the little wolf?”

Addam said nothing and didn’t turn his head to meet Arya’s gaze, which he knew was upon him.

Eventually he lowered his eyes. _Let Frey think I’ve been broken into submission._

Frey clapped his hands abruptly, “Well, it appears a celebration is in order! Lord Drumm, the Queen’s orders were clear. Your men will be hosted here tonight. You’ll experience firsthand our generosity – in food, wine, and women. Though I suppose you’ve no shortage of the latter, what with all your pretty prisoners,” Frey winked at Arya. “Come, Lord Drumm.”

Donal inclined his head respectfully before ordering some of his men to bring Arya and Addam along.

“My lord,” Donal spoke, “When it is convenient, might I pay a visit to your maester? I’d like to send word to our Queen as to when our arrival in the capital can be expected, and to let her know I’ve fulfilled my duty in delivering the Stark girl to you.”

Frey turned around with a grin, “Want to make sure you get your credit, eh? Fair enough. Come, refresh yourself, then you may see the maester at your convenience.”

…

At sundown, Arya and Addam were led out of their respective chambers to attend the feast. Addam had passed the hours sitting on the straw cot, his knees pumping up and down despite his brain’s commands to be still. If all had gone as planned, about a hundred of their Ironborn captors were allowed to stay for the feast. The rest were led promptly through to the southern side, along with the prisoners, and had set up camp there. Somewhere, back the way they had come, others were ready to advance when the signal was sent up. They had to stay far enough away to be out of sight of any scouts, but close enough to form a blockade to any Freys who tried to escape via that bridge.

Addam wondered how Arya had passed the hours. Knowing her, she shared Addam’s excitement, but none of his fear. The girl was brash bordering on stupid, brave bordering on reckless, and yet Addam couldn’t help but admire her. Where Sansa was measured, Arya was impulsive. In some ways, Arya reminded him of Jaime Lannister. There had been more than a few times over the years that Jaime’s boldness put him in a spot of trouble. Of course, it was nothing he couldn’t fight his way out of.

When one of the Frey guards opened the door to Arya’s chambers, Addam had to suppress a laugh that would no doubt have been conveyed as suspicious.

Arya was yanked out by the arm, her face red with hatred. She was wearing a grey dress and looked clean for the first time in days. Apparently, Lord Frey wanted her all trussed up for the feast. When his amusement wore off, Addam felt a jolt of panic – had she been undressed and bathed by Frey servants? If so, they’d have no doubt found the daggers hidden in her boots and under her vest.

As if reading Addam’s mind she addressed him as a fellow prisoner, “Looks like I’m more important than you. I got a bath, and you still smell like shit.”

The guards chuckled.

Addam shook his head lightly, “Yes, but at least they didn’t make me put on a dress.”

The guards laughed even louder. They had a sense of humor, Addam could say that much for them.

“Fucking Freys,” Arya muttered, addressing the guards without fear, “Sent a pair of maids to give me a bath like I’m some kind of child or spoiled lady. When I bit one on the finger, I made my point well enough.”

Addam wanted to exhale in relief but couldn’t. Instead he just said, “Well, you did warn them that you bite…”

“Aye, but not hard enough, apparently. They still made me throw my clothes out into the hallway and wear this stupid dress. If they mean to torture me, they’re off to a good start.”

“May that be the worst of your suffering, my lady.”

“Doubt it,” she mumbled. The guards sniggered behind them.

The great hall was filled with revelers already in their cups when Addam and Arya were led in. Their arrival was immediately heralded by Walder Frey himself, who stood and held up his goblet as he spoke words of mock hospitality for his _honored guests._

Arya was led to the high table while Addam was made to sit among the Ironborn commanders. He immediately appraised the surroundings. There were many guests – probably all of Walder’s children and grandchildren – but surprisingly few Frey guards along the perimeter. No doubt Walder Frey felt comfortable in his alliance with Cersei and didn’t suspect her Ironborn allies. He knew Stark men still held the impenetrable Moat, but like the rest of the realm he believed Winterfell, the Dreadfort, White Harbor, and the rest of the North had either fallen or surrendered.

After several minutes Donal plopped down next to Addam, purposely bumping him hard in the shoulder.

“Enjoying the festivities?” Donal slurred.

“Not nearly as much as you.”

“Aye,” Donal raised his goblet, “You’re not my problem anymore, neither is the wolf bitch.” His drunken voice brought the attention of some of the guests seated at nearby tables, eager to watch the _squid_ taunt the _turncloak_.

“Seems that way,” Addam mumbled.

“I’ve done my duty, sent word to my queen… soon we’ll be on the Kingsroad, met by a royal escort… then I’ll live out the rest of my days a rich man.”

“A rich man loyal to a mad king and an even madder queen. You should be proud.”

More in the large hall quieted.

Donal elbowed Addam in the arm, more in jest than anger, “ _You’re_ going to lecture _me_ about choosing the wrong side?” Donal pointed his goblet at Walder Frey, sloshing some wine, “Ask Lord Frey how he managed to live so long… it ain’t by picking the _just_ side, it’s by picking the _winning_ side.”

Donal dipped his head respectfully toward Walder, who returned the gesture with a curt nod.

Addam stood up angrily. Immediately five of Donal’s men surrounded him, but Donal waved them away, “You think I’m afraid of _him_?” he spit at Addam’s feet, “Without a sword in his hand he’s useless. These westerners are soft.”

Addam stepped up to him, almost nose to nose, “Care to find out how _useless_ I am?”

Donal was a couple inches taller and was armed, thus no one seemed compelled to intercede. If anything, they were eager to see the two men fight. The Freys were a bloodthirsty lot, Addam knew.

Donal snorted as he shook his head. Addam waited, holding his breath.

When Donal swung, Addam ducked, and landed a blow against the man’s belly. When Donal crumpled over, his own men laughed at him, as did the other guests. Addam allowed him to upright himself before advancing. They kept exchanging blows, some landing, some missing.

While everyone, including the Frey guards, were enraptured in the fight, they didn’t notice the Ironborn moving into their positions, under the guise of getting a better view of the tussle.

Then Arya moved, and it all happened at once. The guards’ throats were slit, the guests were held at sword point, and Donal and Addam launched themselves at the high table after Addam pulled the shortsword from the man’s belt. Donal had his longsword drawn. They advanced on Frey’s two guards, but it wasn’t truly needed. Arya already had her dagger pressed into the paper-thin skin of Walder Frey’s neck.

The guards exchanged a look before laying down their swords. The hall was surprisingly quiet, though Addam could hear commotion outside. There was pounding at the large doors, but they had already been barred.

“Tie up the prisoners,” Arya ordered without taking her eyes off of Walder. The man looked more insulted than angry or even afraid.

“Have your revenge, girl, and be done with it,” he croaked.

“I’ve made the mistake of killing men too quickly before; I’ll not do it again.”

Addam watched as the humbled guests and few remaining guards were bound. It took only a few minutes. No doubt they all hoped that any moment Frey soldiers would come to the rescue. If only they knew most would be running _away_ from the great hall to defend the bridges and walls.

“Now, kill any who wear steel,” Arya ordered coolly.

The men and women mumbled, some whimpered. It gave Addam no joy, but he nodded at the men to execute the order.

“Any who wear steel today most definitely wore steel during the Red Wedding,” Arya added by way of explanation. None could disagree with that logic.

After the unpleasant deed was done, they sat in silence within the great hall. Well, silence aside from the crying of many of the ladies and servants, and the constant banging on the door which their men braced with tables.

Arya had Walder tied to a chair and placed in the middle of the room. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a time, then he recovered his wits, “You think you can take The Twins with your little army?”

“No,” Arya snorted, “I think we can take it with our _big_ army, which is presently bearing down on you from both sides. Oh, and our men still on the inside, who are taking out your archers as we speak. Really, don’t you know how to count? Or were you too busy salivating over the idea of one of your grandsons becoming the Warden of the North?”

Walder’s lips curled but he turned to look at Donal, “Traitors,” he spat, “Were you always on the Ice Queen’s side? Or did you roll over the moment the battle got thick?”

“Me?” Donal looked down to the emblem emblazoned on his leather chest piece, “Oh, how silly of me. I’m not from the Iron Islands, just borrowed some armor off a dead man. I hail from House Umber.”

Another guard stepped forward proudly, “House Glover.”

Another, “House Cerwyn.”

Another, “The Free Folk, and more recently, House Giantsbane.”

Another, “House Manderly.”

One by one they stepped forward, a representative from nearly every northern house, until eventually it was Arya who rose from the chair she’d been sitting in patiently, “House Stark.”

Addam felt his chest swell with pride. The night wasn’t over; their fates were not yet assured, but rarely did one get to witness such unity.

Addam moved to stand next to Arya, “House Marbrand. And I speak on behalf of every man and woman who calls Tywin Lannister their liege lord: you chose the wrong side, Lord Frey…”

The man sneered, “We shall see.”

…

And he did see. Sometime after dawn, the remainder of the Frey army surrendered. They were vastly outnumbered, taken unawares, and cut off from sending any calls for aid.

With a sigh, Arya pushed herself off the ground. She’d been sitting against a column, twirling the Valyrian dagger her sister had given her, for the better part of the last hour. Addam wondered what she was thinking. Was she contemplating how her brother and mother died in this very hall? Was she thinking about the death she herself would soon deal? Or was she thinking of nothing at all?

Arya walked to stand in front of Walder Frey, who by now had resigned himself to his fate. He let out a deep sigh, “War’s not over yet, girl.”

“It is for you,” she responded bluntly.

“Looks that way.”

“Any last words?”

Walder shrugged, “I know flattery will get me nowhere, but I must admit, I admire you Stark women…”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Imagine if it had been your sister all those years ago. She’d have kept her word… we’d have won the war together then and there. Not like your arrogant brother, thinking with his cock instead of his brain.”

Addam knew what he was doing – he was trying to anger Arya so she’d kill him swiftly. But the girl remained emotionless, borrowing some of her sister’s legendary control.

“Any other last words?”

Frey snorted, “Give my regards to your sister... I should have killed her when I had the chance.”

Arya threw her head back and laughed, “Funny, she told me to deliver a similar message: Lord Frey, you should have killed me when you had the chance.”

Walder snorted again, “Any other message?”

“Yes. The North Remembers.” With elegant swiftness she sliced open the old man’s belly, then pulled up a chair to watch him die.

**Sansa**

_How can any man lose a war and still be this cocky?_

Euron sat back and crossed his feet on the table that still held their dinner plates. Tywin stared at the man’s boots with unconcealed repugnance.

As Euron picked his teeth casually, Tywin finally snapped, “Is there a reason you insist on dining with us every evening?”

Euron shrugged, “How many people will get to say they had such an intimate gathering with the king and queen of Westeros?”

“Already recovered from your disappointment at not being said _king?”_ Tywin asked in a glib tone that belied his hatred of the man.

Euron held out his hands, palm up, “I’m adaptable.”

Sansa shook her head, staring down at her untouched meal.

“Still feeling green, pretty wolf?”

She knew by now ignoring him didn’t get him to shut up. Instead she sighed, “Not all of us were born with salt water in our veins.”

Euron shook his head, “Such a shame. You’d have made a lovely salt wife.”

When he got a rise out of neither of his companions, he glanced between the pair with his one beady eye, “Sorry, am I keeping you from even more _intimate_ activities? I suppose I consider myself something of a chaperone… don’t you land lovers insist on wedding _before_ the bedding?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. They didn’t truly need to indulge Euron’s whims, but they needed his continued cooperation. His betrayal would cost them their lives. Of course, it would also cost him his, which he knew, but Sansa feared he might be mad enough to do it anyway.

Though a bigger part of her trusted the man. Not to be honorable, of course, but to always choose the action that was most likely to lead to his survival.

He also seemed fond of Sansa, not that she tried to endear herself to him. The more cutting her remarks, the more personal her insults, the more he seemed to respect her. So if she had to endure the man’s company during this voyage, it would be a small price to pay to win his loyalty – if the man was capable of being loyal.

In an abrupt motion he swung his legs down from the table, “Well, how shall we entertain ourselves this evening? Share war stories? A friendly game of dice?”

“How about companionable silence?” Sansa offered.

Euron smirked at her, “Admit it, she-wolf, you enjoy my company. You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”

“Like one misses a blister on her foot after it heals.”

He threw his head back and laughed, “See? This friendly banter we have… Do you think your _dour_ husband will ever engage in such frivolity?” he straightened his back and furrowed his brow, mimicking Tywin’s stern appearance.

Sansa snorted at the man’s boldness, “I’ll say one thing for you, it takes balls to mock a lion to his face.”

Tywin arched a brow while Euron only grinned some more, “Indeed. If you’re ever curious to see them, I’d be happy to oblige my _queen.”_

“I’ve already taken their measure, or have you forgotten?”

Tywin’s eyes went wide.

“Hah! That’s right!” He turned to Tywin, “Your future wife has quite the grip.”

“Good to know,” Tywin growled. Euron was clearly pleased to see Tywin joining the ripostes, even in his own straight-faced way.

“Well, we still haven’t decided how to pass the evening. A game is tempting, but what I’m really eager to do is have an honest discourse with you two fine people.”

“Are you sure you’re capable?” Tywin spat.

Euron threw a hand over his heart, “My lord, you wound me!” he shook his head, “I’ll prove I can be trusted… ask me anything, I’ll answer honestly. If you even _think_ I’m being dishonest, just say so, and I’ll leave you alone with your betrothed for the rest of the night.”

Tywin glared at him. Sansa didn’t expect him to agree, so her head snapped up when he spoke.

“Fine.”

“Good,” Euron smiled, “Then you’ll each answer one of my questions honestly, yes?”

Sansa locked eyes with Tywin before turning to Euron, “If you get two answers, then each of us gets an answer from you.”

Euron inclined his head, “Fair is fair. Lord Lannister, do you wish to start?”

Tywin’s jaw worked back and forth. Sansa was holding her breath in anticipation.

“When you met with me to discuss an alliance, had you already forged one with Cersei?”

“Yes,” Euron answered without hesitation. When Tywin only stared, he continued, “I suppose one-word answers won’t due if we’re to discern the other’s honesty… Cersei and I had been in communication for some months. She wanted my help defending the capital from the _mother of dragons_. I said the price of my loyalty, my men, and my fleet was to become her king. Pure curiosity on my part, I’ve actually no desire to rule… well, and I also wanted to fuck the queen... She said for that price, I’d also help her take the North,” Euron shrugged, “I like killing, I like fighting. Seemed like a fair deal.”

Tywin tugged at the hem of his doublet. Sansa had come to recognize this as a habit of his when he was displeased or deep in thought.

“My turn,” Euron smiled, “My lord, how long have you had your sights set on the lovely Lady Stark? And by that, I mean, for how long did you wish to see her as the queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

Sansa knew her eyes went wide. She expected… well, she didn’t know what to expect Euron to ask, but not _that._

Tywin’s answer rumbled in his chest, “Since she was betrothed to my grandson.”

Euron clapped, “Well now, I’ll have to call that horseshit, unless you can convince me otherwise.”

Tywin curled his upper lip, “The Starks ruled the North for eight thousand years. Who could be more qualified to reign by Joffrey’s side?”

Euron bowed his head, “I think I believe you, Lord Lannister… but _after_ Joffrey’s demise, after Lady Stark was wed to your vertically-challenged son, then how long until you wished to see her as queen?”

Tywin shook his head, “That’s a second question. You only get one.”

“Answer it,” Sansa spoke without thinking. Tywin turned to look at her, shock evident.

“Answer it,” she repeated, “It’s my question to you. Then I’ll answer one of yours.”

Tywin tugged at his clothing once more, “The day Tommen died.”

Sansa could only stare in awe. She knew what that meant. The day Cersei became queen, Tywin already knew she was unfit.

“My turn again,” Euron turned to Sansa, “How many of your lovers have you killed? And by lovers, I mean a betrothed, a husband, or, quite simply, a man you had lain with.”

“Just one,” she answered automatically, then she corrected herself, “Actually, two.”

Both men stared at her, waiting for her elaboration. “Ramsay Bolton and Petyr Baelish,” was all she offered.

“Petyr Baelish – the one they called Littlefinger?” Euron asked.

Sansa nodded.

“And was his _finger little?”_ Euron smirked, proud of his wordplay.

“Enough,” Tywin growled. Sansa was surprised to hear protectiveness in his tone. She had never told him directly the nature of her and Petyr’s _relationship_ … he was smart enough to guess, but now he had confirmation. But he didn’t look at her like she was a whore; when she raised her head to meet his eyes, he looked… _apologetic?_

Euron, despite his bluster, knew when enough was enough. He turned to Sansa, “My turn to answer your question, my lady.”

She took a deep breath, choosing her words carefully and speaking slowly, “Are you hoping for the opportunity to betray us to Cersei, without losing your head?”

Euron stared at her with something akin to admiration in his eyes before he turned to Tywin, “Do you realize how clever your little wolf is?” He turned back to Sansa and shook his head, “No, I do not _hope_ for that. And I don’t need to answer your question-within-a-question, because you already know.”

Sansa nodded, “That you _will_ betray us, if it is in your best interest to do so…”

Euron tipped his head, “Clever wolf.”

He turned back to Tywin, “Last but not least… a question for your betrothed. If I were you, I’d ask whether she likes to take it up the arse, but I suspect you’ll ask something much more _boring_.”

A harsh glare was Tywin’s response, and he held it long enough that even Euron seemed to shrink, just a bit. When he finally turned to Sansa, she had no expectation, but that didn’t stop her from being surprised by the words that escaped his lips: “After you died, what was it like?”

Euron’s head snapped up, “Don’t tell me you believe those rumors!”

Tywin ignored him, his eyes only for Sansa.

Sansa struggled to remember the words she previously used to describe the dark place. The recollection never left her, but the words… they were lost to her now. Until she realized there was a reason Tywin was asking _this_ question, and it wasn’t general curiosity.

For one of the few times she could remember, she smiled at her betrothed. It felt weak and sad on her lips, but it was there as she spoke, “She’ll be there, Tywin.” 

The man who was rigid and composed at all times visibly relaxed. The lines in his face softened, and some light returned to his eyes. Sansa could almost see the young man who existed decades ago, before Joanna Lannister left the world.

She didn’t bother explaining that he wouldn’t be able to see or smell or touch her. He would learn for himself, someday… and he’d know that it was more than enough to _feel_ her presence.

She also didn’t bother wondering if men like Tywin Lannister went to the dark place.


	125. Ascension

**Cersei**

Cersei promised herself she would not let anything ruin this day for her. This was the day she’d been waiting for since Joffrey’s death. Years had passed but the pain never waned. She’d lost two other children, but nothing was ever as sorrowful as losing her first born son. Her heir. The first manifestation of her and Jaime’s love. Until Myrcella was born, Joffrey was her only happiness in a loveless marriage – the only person she could and wanted to dote on. For a time, he even earned her some of Robert’s respect. But like everything else that didn’t last.

She wasn’t blind to Joffrey’s flaws as everyone thought she was. He was impulsive, short-tempered, and could be compassionless. But it was a mother’s job to forgive, to accept, and to love. Further, she knew it wasn’t Joffrey’s fault. Robert was a miserable excuse for a father. He was too busy drinking and whoring to spend time with Joffrey – to teach him, to discipline him, to guide him.

Cersei never should have been married to Robert in the first place. Robert should have been with Lyanna Stark, his best friend’s sister. Cersei was destined for the handsome and sophisticated Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, just like the boorish Robert was destined for the rambunctious Stark girl. But Rhaegar saw something in Lyanna, something Cersei would never understand. He chose the plain, long-faced Stark girl over the most beautiful girl in the realm. Both men were infatuated with Lyanna. Cersei knew it meant they were fools, but that didn’t lessen the sting.

_Two Stark girls… ruining my life decades apart._

Cersei’s hands balled into fists. She never should have let Robert arrange the betrothal between Joffrey and Sansa. She never should have taken the girl under her wing… Now it was like history repeating itself, except instead of Robert and Rhaegar that chose a Stark over her, it was Tywin and Jaime choosing a Stark over her.

Cersei sipped her wine. The time for regret and reflection was not today. No, she would not let anything ruin this day for her. Today she would finally have her revenge. She’d finally have her answers. She wouldn’t make the same mistake she did last time she had the girl in her clutches. There would be no trial. There would be no court. No smallfolk chanting the name Stark. No, this would be a private affair…

She waited patiently, sitting on the throne in the otherwise empty throne room. She closed her eyes and imagined how perfectly everything would work out this time. No, nothing could ruin this day for her. Not even the sounds of the ungrateful, riotous smallfolk beyond the Keep. Not even the sound of Ser Boros’ hefty footfalls and the clanking of his armor as he gracelessly approached her now.

“Your grace.”

Cersei opened her eyes to find him bowing at the bottom of the steps.

“Ser Boros.”

“The situation is getting worse. The City Watch has had to resort to lethal violence, but the crowds keep growing… they keep pushing forward.”

“Then dispatch more men. Must I tell you everything?”

“I understand, your grace, but with the men sent north to escort the prisoners…”

“But _nothing_! Lord Euron himself will be here soon with his men. What happens beyond the walls of this Keep matters not. They can all fight and die for all I care! Soon enough the woman they fight for will be nothing more than a memory, and they’ll all go back to their pathetic, meaningless lives.”

Blount nodded, “Understood. I shall inform the commander to dispatch more men to keep the peace.”

She held up a hand to signal that he wasn’t dismissed yet, “How much longer?”

He shrugged, “About another hour until they dock.”

“You know what to do then.”

“Yes, your grace. We shall bring them to you directly.”

With a bow, Blount spun and left, leaving Cersei to wonder how one hour could sound like an eternity, even after all these years.

**Sandor**

Twice now he’d left this stinking city vowing to himself that he’d never return. And twice now he’d broken that vow. He only hoped he’d not feel the need to make it a third time, or that if he did, he’d uphold it for a change.

The one-eyed squid looked more like a peacock as he watched Blackwater Bay come into view. Sandor had met a lot of mad fuckers in his day, but this one put all others to shame.

Sandor stood on the deck with his fellow prisoners of war. They were each bound at the wrists. Sansa and the Old Lion wore matching expressions of apathy as the ship sailed into dock. The Kingslayer looked solemn, but his cheeks were red with either suppressed sorrow or rage. Perhaps both.

There were more prisoners and more soldiers on the other ships that made up the fleet, but all that mattered to him was on this one.

Sandor glanced toward the Red Keep. Somewhere there, he was sure, Cersei Lannister was watching her _betrothed_ sail into the bay bearing priceless gifts.

But it was the docks that drew his eyes to linger. Men dressed in white and gold armor were struggling to hold back throngs of commoners who were shouting curses at the Ironborn.

_If only they knew…_

The sight of so many residents showing their support for Sansa (and perhaps Tywin) should have offered relief, but instead it only represented a variable they had not considered. Would the smallfolk try to overrun the Red Keep? Would they succeed? And in response, would Cersei set ablaze the wildfire she had hidden throughout underground tunnels of the city?

Everything had to be handled so carefully. They couldn’t move against Cersei until they were certain that any who served her and knew of the wildfire were killed or subdued. They could not risk some loyal guard or crazed pyromancer setting flame to the cache to avenge his queen.

Yet time was of the essence as well, every minute they played their roles was a danger. What if Cersei decided to just snip off Sansa’s head and be done with it? If she moved quickly, it would force them to reveal their hand too soon.

Sandor’s palms were sweating. Blood was rushing in his ears. It was too late for second-guessing now. He had to play his part. He had to keep Sansa safe. The idea of wildfire being ignited frightened him. The idea of Sansa dying terrified him. He had his priorities in line. Keep Sansa alive. And don’t burn, if you can help it. He wanted to laugh at how a few years had changed things. Fire use to frighten him more than anything. He deserted during the Battle of the Blackwater because everything was on fire. He left Sansa alone that night, knowing what might happen to her if Stannis’ men triumphed, and knowing what would continue happening to her if Joffrey’s men triumphed. It sickened him with shame, even knowing that leaving the city likely spared his life.

 _Play your part. Keep Sansa alive._ He repeated, only in his mind.

Of course, it was made more difficult when none other than Boros fucking Blount was there to greet Euron. His wormy lips twisted into a sick grin when he looked upon Sansa.

“What’s wrong girl? Not happy to see me?”

Sansa only stared past him, as if he were a ghost invisible to the eyes of men.

“The maester’s been thinking up all kinds of special treatments for you, girl.”

When she still didn’t respond, Blount slapped her cheek. Sandor growled and stepped toward him. Blount took a step back until his eyes fell to Sandor’s bound hands, “Not much good as a guard dog when you’re leashed and muzzled, eh?”

The crowd had become rowdier after seeing Sansa, and after seeing Boros slap her. Boros glanced in their direction.

Euron leaned toward him, “Can we play with our toys once we’re behind the walls of the keep?”

Blount nodded toward the throng of rioters, “It’s under control. Come on.”

“Someone will see to my men,” Euron stated, not asked. “I think they’ve earned some warm food and warm cunt.”

“Aye, it’s been arranged. I’m to see you and our honored guests to the Queen without delay.”

“Good. I can’t wait to see the joy on her face when she sees what I’ve brought her.” Euron turned, nodded over six guards, and grabbed Sansa by the arm, “Come, pretty wolf. Our time together is running out…”

“How unfortunate,” Sansa mumbled. Her first words since they’d docked.

The guards pushed Sandor, Tywin, and Jaime along roughly to follow Sansa, Euron, and Blount.

The entire walk to the Throne Room, Euron never shut his mouth.

To Tywin: “Just think: soon all this will be mine!”

…

To Sansa: “I wonder if Cersei will keep you alive long enough to attend our wedding. I’d be so honored to have you among our revelers.”

…

To Blount: “Care to place a friendly wager on who will be the first to scream? The Old Lion, the Young Lion, the Ugly Dog, or the Pretty Wolf?”

A nod from Blount: “The Young Lion.”

“Then I’ll say the Dog,” Euron smiled.

“You two ever shut up?” Sandor grumbled.

Euron chuckled, hooking his thumb over his shoulder toward Sandor, “That one hates chit-chat. Not like there’s much else to do on a ship, I say. Or maybe he’s just sore that I kept the pretty wolf company while he was stuck down below with the rats.”

Blount threw a glance behind him without breaking his stride, “Always had a soft spot for the bitch.”

Sandor only scowled in response.

They had finally reached the Throne Room and were led inside without delay. Sandor was surprised to find the room empty save for Cersei, Qyburn, two of the Kettleblacks, and a young guard he did not know by name. Blount made four guards to their six.

_Too bloody easy. I wanted more men to kill today._

Euron entered the room with his arms held out, “I expected a livelier reception, your grace.”

Cersei slowly descended the stairs, her eyes fixed on Sansa even as she allowed Euron to kiss her cheek, “I decided on a more intimate setting.”

“As you wish, my bride. Behold,” Euron held his hand out and gestured at the prisoners with a flourish, “four people who need no introduction. I have done what you asked of me. I have brought the North to kneel and delivered to you the worst traitors of them all.”

“Indeed. I must say I doubted you for a time… now I know my worry was wasted.”

Euron bowed his head and took a step back, ready to let Cersei address her prisoners.

But for long minutes all she did was stare at each of them in turn. Eventually she began pacing in front of them, hands clasped under her chin, a manic look in her eyes, “I’ve had this moment planned for months, yet now I hardly know where to begin…”

“Then allow me,” Jaime spoke with barely contained rage, “ _Why_ , Cersei?”

“Why what?” Cersei looked genuinely perplexed.

“Why _this_? Why war? Why couldn’t you leave us be, leave the North be?”

“You know why, brother! She killed Joffrey. And it was only a matter of time before she took up arms against me!”

“On what are you basing that assumption?”

“Assumption?! It’s a _fact_. She allied with the Vale – even killing Petyr Baelish to do so. She allied with Shireen Baratheon. She wanted Dragonstone as a military base. Are you truly that blind or are you lying for her?”

“Neither, Cersei. But you’re wrong. She called on the Vale and Lady Shireen because we knew you were planning an attack. Hells, you admitted it when we were last all together!”

“Jaime,” Cersei stroked his face even as he twisted to get out of her reach. At his movement her face hardened, and her slender fingers curled into a rigid fist, “You are blind because you are in love with her.”

A dam burst in Jaime’s eyes, “I’m not in love with her, you fool! The woman I’m in love with is dead now because of you!” his normally smooth voice was rough as it echoed through the large, empty hall.

Cersei looked as if she’d been slapped, but Jaime didn’t stop. “Lady Brienne of Tarth. The most kind-hearted, honorable, loving woman I’ve ever known. Dead because of the war you waged! Countless other good men and women dead because of you! Because you’re spiteful! Because you’re hateful! Because you’re delusional!”

Cersei’s lips curled, “She has completely poisoned you, brother. Just as she’s poisoned our father.”

Jaime’s head fell back as he laughed bitterly, “Tell me, Cersei. Have you ever loved anyone, truly? Did you love me? Did you love your children?”

Cersei’s eyes went wide, “You dare to ask if I loved my children – _our_ children?! I loved them so much it hurts every day of my life!”

“Truly? Then why is it only Joffrey’s death you’ve tried to avenge?”

He had stunned her with that blow but did not relent, “You never waged war against the Martells… and Tommen? I think we all know the person who killed him is standing right here, alive and well.”

Her eyes were thunderclouds, dangerous and dark, but instead of a boom her voice came out like a gentle breeze, “You think I killed Tommen?”

“I think you caused his death, yes. I know you did. You killed his wife, his unborn child… you might as well have pushed him off of that balcony.”

Cersei slapped him hard on the cheek. The Kingslayer only ground his jaw, “Tell me Cersei… admit you bear some tiny morsel of regret for your actions. Give me some reason to believe you’re better than the king I put my blade through.”

Her teeth were borne in a snarl, “The only regret I have is ever letting anyone named Stark or Tyrell enter this city... Stark women take the men I love. Tyrell women take the sons I love.”

There wasn’t even a second’s hesitation, a hint of contemplation. Jaime hung his head, “I guess I have my answer.”

Jaime had rattled his sister, but she composed herself admirably enough, straightening her back and stepping in front of her father, “How long?”

Tywin glared at his daughter, letting strife and shame bleed through his eyes, “After the trial. Our alliance was forged while you thought I was in Riverrun with the Tullys.”

“Why?”

Tywin sighed, “Because you’re not fit to rule. Because you’re mad.”

“ _I’m_ mad?!” Cersei pointed at Sansa, “You think _she_ is fit to rule! A traitor? A lady who pretends to be a warrior? A woman so heartened she can feel no pain? A woman with a _death wish_?”

Cersei shook her head when Tywin said no more. Her eyes landed on Sandor only a moment, but apparently there was nothing she needed to hear from him.

She returned to stand in front of Sansa, “I have the answers I needed from them. But you… I won’t even bother asking. You’re stronger than all three of these men combined, I’ll give you that. But everyone has a breaking point. _Everyone!_ You will confess before you die, the only question is how much your men will have to suffer first.”

“Shh, shh…” Sansa held up her bound hands.

Cersei’s head retracted, “Excuse me?”

Sansa began humming, a smile spreading on her mouth.

“What in all hells are you playing at?”

“Shh…”

Her humming continued, while Cersei watched on, stupefied.

Sansa nodded, “I’ve got it now. Thank you, your grace. I have been working on a song about you these past few days… I’ve finally finished it, thanks to your inspiration. Do you care to hear it?”

Cersei crossed her arms, “Consider my curiosity piqued.”

“You’re most generous, your grace. I’m afraid it won’t sound so pleasant without instrumental accompaniment, but you’ll just have to imagine it. I know you have an active imagination, so that shouldn’t be a problem."

Sansa took a deep breath…

> _You pretend you're wise  
> _ _You pretend you're bored  
> _ _You pretend you're anything  
> _ _Just to be adored  
> _ _‘Cause what you need  
> _ _Is what you get_
> 
> _Don't believe in fear  
> _ _Don't believe in faith  
> _ _Don't believe in anything  
> _ _That you can't **break**_
> 
> _S_ _tupid girl  
> _ _Stupid girl  
> _ _All you had you wasted  
> _ _All you had you wasted_
> 
> _W_ _hat drives you on  
> _ _Can drive you mad  
> _ _A million lies to sell yourself  
> _ _Is all you ever had_
> 
> _Don't believe in love  
> _ _Don't believe in hate  
> _ _Don't believe in anyone  
> _ _That you can't tame_
> 
> _Stup—_

Cersei slapped Sansa hard with a closed fist, splitting her lip.

“But I wasn’t finished. Didn’t you like it?”

She slapped her again, this time on her cheekbone.

Cersei lowered herself to Sansa’s level, her teeth bared, “I was going to start off easy. Snip a finger here, pull a tooth there… but you don’t deserve my mercy.”

Sansa smiled, blood filling the cracks between her teeth. It was frightening, and yet Cersei didn’t see the threat that it was, “Do you know how your grandfather and uncle died, little dove?”

“I’ve heard the stories.”

“Your grandfather was roasted alive in a suit of armor over a pyre, while your uncle strangled himself trying to reach a sword to cut his father down. Took _hours_ , or so I’ve heard.”

At a flourished flick of her wrist, the Kettleblacks pulled back a set of long, heavy curtains in the back corner of the room. Sandor hadn’t even noticed it upon entering. Behind it was the very torture contraption Cersei was referring to. Sandor’s skin went numb and warm just looking at it. Euron shifted on his feet. Jaime straightened.

Cersei stared up at the device proudly from where she crouched in front of Sansa, “I will extend you one courtesy. I’ll let you decide which of your men goes in it first. The armor will be a tight squeeze for the Hound, but we can make it work. It will be a perfect fit for your _betrothed…_ Your choice, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa nodded casually, “Or perhaps I’ll put you in it… though I doubt any man in this room or even the entire realm would choke himself to keep you from burning.”

Cersei laughed, “I’d like to see you try.”

The dagger was out of her sleeve and against Cersei’s throat before the woman could finish chuckling. “Be careful what you wish for,” Sansa sneered.

“Bar the doors!” Tywin shouted.

Jaime, Tywin, and Sandor loosened their binds and drew their daggers as the Ironborn guards advanced on the Queensguard. Euron already had his sword pressed to Qyburn’s neck. Tywin approached the pair, “Where is the wildfire hidden?” he demanded

The young guard, who’d already laid down his sword, spoke up, “I know where it is, my lord, all of it. No one knows but Qyburn, Queen Cersei, Blount, and the Kettleblacks now.”

“Traitor!” Blount bellowed.

After handing a stunned Cersei over to Sandor, Sansa walked hastily toward the young guard, “I remember you,” she said.

The man dropped to one knee, head lowered, “My name is Preston Brance. I serve a mutual friend, your grace. One who will regret not being here to see this, I’m sure. I am in your service, if you’ll have me.”

Sansa turned to Tywin, “He did not hurt me when the others did.”

Tywin only nodded.

Cersei began raging, her voice a haunting cackle, “You too?” she spat at Euron.

The man only shrugged, “We lost the war, your grace.”

As realization dawned on Cersei, she fell to the floor, angry tears welling in her eyes. Sandor was forced to kneel so he could keep his hands firmly clutching her arms.

“No!” Sansa approached her with a snarl, “ _No!_ You do not get to play the victim now. You’ve written your own fate… You’re reaping what you sowed. All the hate, all the violence, all the cruelty. It is all you will know for the rest of your miserable life.”

Cersei looked up at her, both defeat and indignance in her eyes, “And how long will that be?”

Sansa kneeled, “For as long as I say.”

Cersei snorted, “Perhaps we have something in common after all…”

Sansa shook her head, “I don’t enjoy killing. I don’t enjoy inflicting pain. But for you, I’m going to make an exception.”

Cersei’s lip curled, “It’s not over yet. My army…”

“Most of your army is outside the city. Mine is inside. Your army fights for coin, mine fight for their lives, their families, their freedom. Your own people are against you. You have no one but a deranged old man and a few sadistic guards on your side. Your brothers… your father… your _betrothed_ … They all see you for the monster you are. And yet you continue to deny it.”

Cersei giggled, her madness glaringly obvious in that moment, “I’ll admit what I am when you admit what you did.”

Sansa shook her head, “I didn’t kill Joffrey. Petyr Baelish and Olenna Tyrell did.”

“You conspired with—”

“I did no such thing. If I had, I would have insisted that Joffrey suffer for longer than a minute.”

 _“Liar…”_ she sneered.

Sansa stood, “I’ll no longer try to reason with a madwoman.” She turned to address Jaime, “Cersei and Qyburn to the Black Cells. As deep and dark as you can take them. Ser Osmund and Ser Boros belong to the Hound. The third moron you can dispose of as you see fit.”

Sandor glared at Blount and Kettleblack, wondering if his sneer called to mind a dog or a wolf. Either way, if there was any shit left in their bowels he'd be surprised.

With the situation well in hand, Tywin walked to Sansa’s side, “Are you ready?”

She turned to face Sandor. Her eyes were clouded with doubt and regret. Perhaps it was intentional – a message only for him; a reminder that this isn’t what she wanted for them. Sandor nodded his head one time, trying to convey understanding and approval through his eyes.

She turned toward Tywin, “Let’s go.”

**Tywin**

“Our men are securing the city, then they’ll go out to deal with Cersei’s men beyond the gates. I don’t expect much resistance.”

His betrothed nodded, though her blank stare made him question whether she heard what he said until she lifted one elegant eyebrow, “Once the smallfolk realize the Ironborn are actually Northerners and Westerners, I suspect Cersei’s remaining _loyalists_ will surrender. Fighting a mob _and_ an army? I doubt any of them want that.”

Tywin hummed his agreement, “Word is being spread, but we must address the people sooner rather than later.”

“Our people.”

“Hmm?”

“We must address _our_ people.”

Tywin stifled a groan, “Indeed. Shall we?”

Ten minutes later they stood upon the western parapets. The scene around them was chaos. Apparently, the riots began shortly after the commoners heard that the North had fallen – that the Red Wolf and Great Lion were captured by Ironborn invaders and en route to the capital to meet the _queen’s justice._

Tywin watched the crowd slowly hush as their eyes fell upon him and Sansa. At first it seemed to be confusion – was this some kind of cruel jape of the Lion Queen? But nonetheless they quieted and stilled to hear what would be said.

Sansa turned to Tywin. He nodded. She was the people’s queen. She would have their love and admiration; he would have their fear and respect. She would have first reign; it was only fitting that she would speak first.

When she finally did, a shiver traveled through his limbs at the sound of her voice projecting a great distance. He saw men and women watching his queen in utter awe. He watched them press hands to hearts, fingers to lips. He watched tears of joy and relief be wiped from eyes and cheeks.

“People of King’s Landing. I am Sansa of House Stark. I am here to end a war that has been waging far too long; a war that never would have ended as long as Cersei Lannister sat the Iron Throne.

I come here not to continue the way of the recent kings and queens, but to break the mold. Westeros is divided. Westeros is hurting. Its men, women, and children have suffered too much hardship, too much war. If you choose me, I will do whatever is in my power to improve the quality of life for _all_ of us, not just a select few. I cannot promise quick results. I cannot promise your hardship will end immediately, or end permanently, but I can promise that if you suffer, I will suffer with you. If you starve, I will starve with you. I will not profit off the misfortunes of others…

I ask you now, people of King’s Landing, will you join the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, and the Westerlands in unity? In a common cause of peace and prosperity?”

The _resounding_ “yes” shook Tywin to his core. Everyone who could see and hear her was already enamored by her. Cersei never commanded this attention and affection, nor did Tommen, even with Margaery Tyrell by his side. Even the beloved Robert Baratheon didn’t have such admiration, or if he did it was brief. _May Sansa hold the people’s respect until the end of her days._

Sansa nodded and held her hand up to silence the lingering affirmations and cheers, “Then, I have only one other question: do you accept me as your servant, as your queen?”

Another wave of affirmations filled the air above and around the keep. Tywin narrowed his eyes at her, and she turned to him with a challenge, “I will not be a tyrant. No matter my vow to you, if the people do not want me as their queen, I will not force myself upon them.”

Tywin nodded one time. He didn’t agree with her logic, after all, people were fickle creatures, but he understood the political ramifications. She would be the queen the people _chose_ , so they would have some culpability, some investment, in her long and successful reign.

Sansa again silenced the crowd, “I thank you for the faith you show in me. I pray I never give you reason to doubt it. I ask only for patience as we work to rebuild what others tore asunder: the Cruel King, the Lion Queen, the Dragon Queen, the Night King… It will be a long and difficult road, but I know we will get there, because I have faith in those around me to assist in this monumental task. The man who stands beside me has seen his people through trial after trial. He has tried to steer the realm toward peace since before I was born, and he has done so even when it meant putting himself at odds against those in power. He serves the realm. His people and mine united to save the realm from the Dragon Queen. He saved my beloved North, and he saved _you_ , from a threat which Cersei Lannister was ready to unleash. He is a man who asks for no recognition, so most never know the sacrifices he has made, but I know, and I won’t forget. If you accept me as your servant queen, I ask you to accept Lord Tywin Lannister as your servant king, to reign by my side as my lord husband. Do you accept us?”

Her words put a flutter in his stomach. He hadn’t expected it, and for the split second it took the crowd to respond he feared their rejection. But when the chants began, when all those present dropped to their knees, he knew everything had fallen into place. As Sansa said, it would not be an easy road ahead, but they would travel it together.

He clasped her hand, permitting himself the barest hint of a smile as he looked upon the woman who would have been his granddaughter, was briefly his gooddaughter, then his enemy, and now his queen.

He lifted their joined hands, and the cheers below became deafening even from many feet above the ground. Most of the voices called out _Queen Sansa,_ others _King Tywin._ He thought he also heard “lion” and “wolf” preceded by various adjectives. But when voices turned into howls, his skin prickled in excitement. Among the revelers were their men, still bearing the Ironborn armor, or looking dirty and disheveled from weeks of traveling as prisoners of war. Tywin turned to find more of them within the walls of the keep. His own son Jaime was among them. The Hound as well, though with fresh blood painting his face and tunic. He recognized Ser Bryan of the Vale, and the man tipped his head as his eyes met the Old Lion. There were many others still too far north to see this moment. Ser Addam should be arriving soon, along with Sansa’s sister. Later Sansa’s wildling lord would arrive along with the she-bear who had apparently captured the heart of Tywin’s youngest son.

But many faces were missing. Sansa’s most loyal vassal – Lord Glover, who Tywin had come to respect and trust during the war. Jaime’s beloved Lady Brienne. Edmure Tully. Tyrion…

Sansa’s hand tightened around his, and she shot him a concerned look. Tywin shook away his somber thoughts and offered a reassuring nod.

With a last wave to the crowd, Tywin and his betrothed returned to the throne room, ready to begin.

Sitting casually in the throne itself was Euron, though he was surrounded by guards loyal to them.

He clapped his hands slowly, grinning from ear to ear, “All hail Queen Sansa and King Tywin!” He descended the steps quickly and bowed deeply before them.

When he rose, he was still smiling, “I wonder how history will remember you… Sansa the Bitter? Tywin the Dull? Sansa the Young, Tywin the Old? Ah, well, perhaps I will yet know in my lifetime. Queens and Kings haven’t been lasting very long, of late. Soon you may both be relegated to the history tomes.”

Sansa only stared at him. The indifference and at times disgust she showed for the man during their journey was replaced with contempt. Euron noticed, of course.

He shook his finger back and forth, “Uh-uh, your grace. A deal is a deal.”

Sansa nodded, “Indeed. I am a woman of my word. A royal escort to the Iron Islands, where you will live out the rest of your days unmolested by the Crown.”

Euron nodded, “I knew there was honor in you wolves.”

Sansa dipped her head at Euron before turning to one of the guards, “Will you summon Lord Greyjoy’s escort? I assume he will wish to return home immediately.”

Euron clasped his hands behind his back, “You assume correctly. Though I’d love to stay for the coronation and wedding, I don’t know how safe I’d be in this city. Especially when your runt of a sister arrives. I’d prefer to return to a place filled with friendly faces.”

“Like mine?” a voice called from the main doorway.

Upon seeing the newcomer Euron’s smile fell away all at once. Tywin couldn’t help but smirk at the sight.

Yara strutted up to them, ignoring her uncle temporarily as she bowed before Tywin and Sansa.

“You bow to no one now, remember?” Sansa teased.

“Aye, consider it a gesture of respect, not subservience.”

“What… what…” Euron stammered.

Sansa smiled at him with all the warmth of an executioner. Tywin supposed that’s what she was, in the moment.

“A royal escort was promised, and it can’t get any more royal than a _queen_.”

“What… you… you were dead. They said you were dead,” Euron gasped, all arrogance gone in place of fear and disbelief.

“What’s dead may never die,” Yara winked.

“You seem displeased,” Sansa inquired innocently. “Have no fear – Queen Yara will make sure you live out the rest of your days in your homeland, as agreed. Oh, that reminds me,” Sansa pulled a small scroll from beneath her sword belt and handed it to Yara.

“What’s this?”

“My sister Arya prepared this for you, in case you run out of ideas. I myself find number four particularly creative.”

Yara smiled conspiratorially, “Tell that she-wolf anytime she wants to visit, she’s welcome. I think her and I would get along famously.”

Sansa nodded, “I will pass along the message.” She turned to Euron, “Goodbye, Lord Greyjoy. I hope your journey is pleasant. As pleasant as my brother’s journey with you was.”

His eye darkened, and he lunged toward Sansa, who didn’t even flinch. Ironborn guards – this time _actual_ Ironborn, loyal to Yara Greyjoy, held him firmly then dragged him from the throne room as he spewed curses and insults and threats at Sansa.

Yara turned back to Sansa and Tywin as her uncle’s cries faded, “Nothing has changed?”

Sansa shook her head, “No. I keep my word, when the other party is worthy of it. I consider you an ally and a friend, Yara Greyjoy. Independence is yours as long as you abide by the terms of our agreement.”

Yara appraised Sansa then smiled as if having an epiphany, “You’re not so bad, Ice Queen.”

Sansa chuckled, “Does that make you the Salt Queen?”

Yara seemed to seriously consider it, “I like the sound of that. Better than Iron Queen…” She turned wistfully toward the throne, “Good luck with your crown.”

Sansa dipped her head, “Same to you.”

With a click of her tongue Yara strutted to the door but paused at the last moment, “Stark.”

Sansa turned and Yara’s smile widened, “You look mighty fine in those breeches,” she winked, “Don’t let your husband make you wear a dress.”

As the _Salt_ Queen disappeared beyond the door Tywin leaned to speak low in Sansa’s ear, “You’re setting a dangerous precedent, my lady.”

She turned to him with her forehead pinched in confusion, “I’m hardly the first woman to wear pants, my lord.”

Tywin sighed, “I meant in granting the Iron Islands their independence.”

“The deal was struck before a sword was swung in this war… I will not earn any loyalty by going back on my word.”

Tywin straightened his back, staring at the throne that neither of them had yet sat upon, “As you say, my lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh... so nervous to post this one.
> 
> Without giving any spoilers, I'll let you know that there will be some retrospective chapters coming that will explain some of what has transpired. In the meantime I hope the suspense is compelling, not annoying.
> 
> RIP Brienne. I'll admit that, as one of the more one-dimensional characters, she has never been a fave of mine, but writing her in Ascension made me develop more respect for her. She is Sandor's inverse, I've often thought. She wears her honor on her sleeve, while he hides his behind anger and cynicism. She believes in justice while he mocks it. Her insecurities are plain, while his are shrouded in self-deprecation. She is the unlikely lover of Jaime Lannister while Sandor is the unlikely lover of Sansa Stark. They're also the two most loyal characters in GOT, alongside Jon, IMHO, but while Brienne embraces her loyalty in a knightly way, Sandor diminishes his by comparing it to the simplicity of an obedient dog. Brienne is knighted, against all odds, while Sandor could have been knighted time and again but never wanted it.
> 
> As a reminder, in my fic, Brienne is the one who saves Sansa while she and Theon run from the Boltons. She convinced Jaime to help her in this cause. She will be honored in subsequent chapters, so please don't think her death was a Red Shirt moment. Unfortunately, it took place during the battles and I decided not to explicitly cover the battles in detail, for multiple reasons. 1) Wanted to focus on the intrigue, instead. 2) Writing battles is HARD. 3) unlike the battle for Winterfell, the Long Night and the battle at Casterly Rock, this war took place over a couple months and thus would be tedious to write and read.


	126. People like us

**Varys**

“You know, for a man who made his living in the shadows, you were remarkably easy to find.”

The voice was one Varys wouldn’t forget in ten lifetimes. It dripped with Lannister pride, but bore a humor that few other Lannisters possessed.

Varys turned to see the half man and his companion. He didn’t let his shock show, keeping his mouth straight and his eyes relaxed.

“Aye,” the sellsword eyed a passing woman, “I was looking forward to spending some time enjoying the local culture.”

Varys bowed his head, “What’s the rush? Stay awhile; I don’t mind company. Even yours _._ ”

“My queen and king need me,” Tyrion stated casually, “Or rather, I’m afraid if I stay away too long, they’ll realize they _don’t_ need me, and I’m a man who needs to be needed.”

Varys stared at the two men, hoping but not believing that his greatest prayer had been answered. It was more likely that Tyrion had been in transit and hadn’t heard news of the war.

Varys spoke slowly, “Your father and queen were captured, along with your brother.”

“Indeed, and I was killed,” his mismatched eyes stared at Varys almost mockingly, as if he was disappointed that his mere presence didn’t explain everything that had transpired these past moons.

For the first time in his long life, Varys felt no shame in having been misinformed.

“They sent _you_ to bring me back? My, my… you must not be as important as you think, old friend, if you’ve been relegated to an escort… or a guard.”

An odd look passed quickly through the smaller man’s eyes, “Actually, they sent me here as a _last hope_. A contingency plan, you could say, in case their plan did not work… in case the war was lost.”

Varys eyed him for long moments, “I don’t understand.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Neither do I. My queen said it was so that I could help rebuild and lead the realm, however I may be able to. My king said something about legacy, though he spoke little on the topic, as each word was a great difficulty for him to utter.”

Varys smirked, “And what of the queen’s legacy? Is there a little wolf with you?”

“Ah, _no_ ; though not for lack of trying on the queen’s part. You’d be amazed how stubborn those Starks can be. Truly, they should change their sigil to a badger or mule.”

“But neither of those creatures is known for its cunning, and the Starks clearly are cunning.”

“Indeed… then a fox, perhaps? Are foxes stubborn?” Tyrion turned to Bronn, bringing the sellsword back into their conversation.

The man shrugged, “Who the fuck cares? We’ve got a sea voyage ahead of us for you two to decide whether it should be badgers, foxes, turtles, worms, or whatever the fuck else.”

Tyrion glared at him, “A few minutes ago you were complaining about having to leave Essosi soil so soon. Now you’re suddenly anxious to go?”

“Aye. It wasn’t the soil I was reluctant to leave,” Bronn flashed a grin at another passing woman, “and I want to get back before they give away all the best castles. Protecting your _important_ arse must entitle me to something pretty sweet, don’t you think?”

Tyrion looked to Varys, “Are you prepared to depart on the morrow?”

“You didn’t even ask if I wish to return. Perhaps I’m ready to live out the rest of my days in the peace and sunshine of Pentos.”

Tyrion sighed, “Do you wish to live out the rest of your days in the peace and sunshine of Pentos?”

Varys waved a robed arm, “Heavens, no.”

**Cersei**

“Should I call you goodmother now?”

She didn’t need to raise her head to know who her visitor was. The footsteps were not as heavy as a man’s, nor as dainty as a lady’s. They were purposeful and confident yet light. The feet belonged to a person who’d once been a lady but had abandoned anything that would make her seem delicate. Dresses, gait, voice.

Cersei remembered well the day she realized it wasn’t enough to be named queen, one had to carry herself as a queen. Though the little dove didn’t carry herself the way Cersei had all those years. She didn’t exude authority, but nor did she ooze weakness. Cersei mused that her footsteps were something of a lady, a dancer, a queen, and a warrior. Perhaps she was all of these things. Perhaps she was none of them.

The answer didn’t come for several seconds, during which Cersei eventually looked up to the lantern-lit face of Sansa Stark. Or was she Sansa _Lannister_ now? Cersei hated that the light and the face were both comforting, not because of who bore them, but because it was something to break up the bleakness of her new existence. It was a respite from the darkness that enveloped so completely that at times she wondered if she was dead. She’d been in the Black Cells before, of course, but she was always the one visiting – the one wielding the light, not the one praying for it. Living in it as she had for the past weeks she finally understood that there was no worse form of torture. She’d gladly endure all manner of bodily abuse if it meant catching a glimpse of the sun. Hells, she’d settle for the moon.

“You may continue calling me the Wolf Bitch, or the Northern Whore, or Little Dove, or whatever other term you prefer,” the girl finally answered.

“So you’ve married the man who was my father?”

“Yes,” she answered plainly.

“Was it a beautiful ceremony? Did the revelers weep their blasphemous tears?”

“It was small affair, taking place in the sept of the Red Keep, since the Great Sept of Baelor wasn’t available.”

“And who walked you down the aisle?”

“I walked myself.”

“Hmpf. You think you will win their love with that independence? That defiance? No matter what your past accomplishments in war, they want a queen. A beautiful queen with her soft voice and her pretty smile. Margaery Tyrell never held a dagger in her life and look how they loved her.”

“I doubt you have ever held a dagger, either, and look how they hate you.”

Cersei snorted, “Hate. Love. Hard to tell the difference sometimes, isn’t it?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. Cersei’s smiled.

“You doubt me, little dove? Tell me how much of your life the past few years has been spent thinking about people you hate… Your late husband. The Queen of Dragons. _Me_ … now how much time have you spent thinking of whomever you love? Your brother and sister, my brother – the tall one that is. Any man you might fancy.”

“If you define love merely by time spent thinking of someone, I feel you’re assigning a very narrow meaning to the word.”

“Perhaps, but my point stands. The queen that people fell in love with cannot hold their affection. You’re a wartime queen, and now you think you can try your hand at being a peacetime queen.”

The girl sat down, placing the lantern beside her, “And what does that make you? You failed at war and failed at peace.”

Cersei smiled, “It makes me nothing. A few short pages in the history of the throne. But don’t pretend you’ll be anything more. You think you will bring peace to the realm? You can’t give the people something they don’t want. It’s not in a man’s nature to be at peace. Men find reasons to fight or create them if they must. Tourneys? An excuse for men to fight and bleed and kill. Tavern brawls? Fighting for no reason at all.”

“You’re comparing fights and tourneys to battles and wars. And you’re also ignoring the fact that _men_ haven’t waged the wars of late. It’s been us queens, hasn’t it? The Dragon Queen, the Lion Queen, the Wolf Queen. And the one that came out on top is the one who didn’t want the war to begin with.”

Cersei threw her head back against the stone wall and laughed, “Are you still singing that tune? Truly? Let me tell you something, _your grace_ , you don’t find yourself repeatedly in the midst of something unless you do something to get yourself there. Did you _need_ to take Winterfell from the Boltons, or could you have boarded a ship to Essos and lived wealthy and safe as the wife of a merchant? Did you _need_ to march with your men to Casterly Rock, or could you have let your brother, a legitimized Stark man, go in your stead? Did you _need_ to fight that day in the pit, or could you have let your loyal hound do it for you? Did you need to fight in this war, or could you have bent the knee, saved your people from dying even if it meant forfeiting your own life?”

The girl was silent, contemplative. Cersei smirked victoriously.

“And you? Could you not have bowed out gracefully and let Tommen and Margaery rule the realm? Could you not have left the North in peace? Left me in peace? What does all the death you’ve rained down make you?”

“It makes me a killer, same as you…”

She watched the girl’s eyes betray a range of emotions. She may be strong, she may be clever, but her heart was still too soft.

Cersei smiled, “The difference between you and I, is that I admit what I am. I don’t pretend to be the people’s queen because I care not for the people. Did Aegon conquer Westeros because he _cared_ about the people _?_ Did Robert usurp the Mad King because he _cared_ about the people _?_ Did your brother march to war for his people? Did Stannis Baratheon? No… none of them cared about the people. None of them claimed or held the throne for the _people._ The did it for themselves, or at best their legacy, their family. The pursuit of power makes a man do heinous things, little dove. You think men will see you on the throne, even with my father by your side, and sit back and worship you? No, they will envy what you have, and they will try to take it from you. It won’t matter if they respect you. It won’t even matter if they love you. They will take what they can, because that’s what men do. I did what I did because the only way to stop others from taking is to make sure they fear you… to make sure you’re always stronger than them. That you’re more ruthless than them.”

“Then why have Starks ruled the north for eight thousand years, and not the Boltons?”

“I didn’t say _just_ fear… I said fear and power. Your family held the power in the North. The largest army, the strongest fortress.”

Sansa shifted, “What piece of advice are you trying to impart? That I should be no better than the Mad King? Than _Joffrey_? Then what – just wait until one of my own puts me down? Or that I’m poisoned within my own castle by someone I think is my ally?”

Cersei shrugged, “No. I’m not offering advice at all, really. Just wisdom.”

“Please distill this wisdom, because all I’ve heard are the ramblings of a woman who is so jaded that her entire perception of reality has become warped.”

Cersei leaned in, ignoring the attempted insult, “The wisdom is this: it won’t matter what you do. It won’t matter how much you care, how much you try to maintain peace. You can’t change a thing… So I suppose I am offering a bit of advice: enjoy what you can, while you can.”

The two women sat quietly for a while, the flicker of the lantern flame creating the illusion of emotions that Cersei knew were not really there. The woman sitting across from her was hard. She herself was hard. The world had made them that.

_No… **men** have made us that…_

Cersei sighed, “Guards come in twice each day. They tell me what day it is. They bring fresh food and water. They clean out my chamber pot. They linger with their torches or lanterns, for a few minutes at least. They ask if I need anything.”

Sansa nodded, “Yes.”

“Why? Do you think mercy makes you better than me?”

“I think many things make me better than you. But no, it isn’t mercy.”

“Then what?”

Sansa sighed, “I spent a week in these cells, at your orders. The only distraction was when your maester and guards came to torture me. But they never told me whether it was day or night. I didn’t know if they were coming hours apart or days apart. I didn’t know if the slop they threw in was being delivered once a day or twice a day. Perhaps it was three times each day.”

Cersei snorted, “And yet you say your treatment of me isn’t mercy?”

Sansa shrugged, “Does a madman suffer?”

“What?”

“Does a madman suffer? _A madman_. The one who howls at the moon, who pulls out his own hair and flings his own excrement… Do you believe he is suffering? Does he feel sorry for himself? Does he even know he’s mad?”

Cersei thought about it, “No… I suppose he doesn’t.”

“Well, then you have your answer. I don’t want you going mad, madder than you already are, that is. I want you to feel every second that ticks by. I want you to count the hours, the days, the weeks, the months… the years.”

Cersei blood boiled, “I am a queen.”

“Indeed, which makes your crimes all the more egregious.”

“So that’s it? You’ll leave me down here until I die a natural death? Or find a way to kill myself?”

“That’s it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not merciful. I’m not good. I want you to suffer.”

“There are worse ways for a person to suffer.”

Sansa crawled until they were separated by only an arm’s length, “No. Not for people like us.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“No woman who’s lost a child can ever be hurt by worldly pains. Men think they know pain on the battlefield. They’re wrong. Our greatest pain is in here,” the girl tapped her forehead. “Everyone says you’re a monster, that you have no remorse, no regret; but I saw it in your eyes in the throne room. I saw the pain when Jaime spoke to you about Tommen. I saw the pain when you, once again, accused me of Joffrey’s murder. If you’re capable of grief, you’re capable of remorse. I must believe that. So I will leave you here with your greatest enemy: yourself…

I’ll leave you here until you admit that you failed all of them….” Sansa rose and walked to the door, “You allowed Joffrey to act as a menace – you, the only person who had no reason to fear him – you let him start a war, you let him make enemies at every turn. You conspired against the Tyrells, killing the woman and unborn child your son loved. You did push him off the balcony, not with your hands but with your words and actions, all because you wanted to keep the power in your own hands. I don’t care who you’ve murdered or plotted against, who you’ve fucked, who you’ve betrayed. Admit to me that _your_ pursuit of personal power killed your own children, lost you the brother you loved, the father you respected… Confess, _your grace_ , and this will all end.”

Her shape and light source disappeared behind the heavy door seconds before Cersei flung her chamber pot where the stupid bitch had stood. The warmongering bitch had the audacity to demand a confession from Cersei? How were so many men – her own father and brother, the cynical hound, dozens of lords and ladies – blind to the wolf queen’s hypocrisy?

Cersei’s knew a confession would bolster the girl; vindicate her. If Cersei had to live another forty years in this black pit, she would do it gladly before giving that bitch a shred of satisfaction.

_Patience. Strength. That’s all you need._


	127. Questions

**Jaime**

Jaime couldn’t decide if life was moving faster or slower these days. Perhaps the world itself was moving fast, and he himself was moving slow. Most days he felt like he was trudging through deep snow. That comparison made him think about the bleak days spent with Brienne, Podrick, Sansa, and Theon on their march to Castle Black. Days were agony, trekking through the merciless wilderness. Nights were a different kind of agony, listening to Sansa’s screams as she battled ghosts in her slumber.

Jaime and Brienne had bonded long before that, when she escorted him from the Stark war camp to King’s Landing and through all the hardships they faced in between. Their bond deepened over their mutual concern for their delicate young charge, who proved not to be as delicate as they both thought. Then yet again as they searched Braavos for Arya Stark, only to find Tyrion instead. Through the past several years, Jaime spent more time with Brienne than anyone, and though he never admitted it to anyone, she led him to discovering his own sense of honor, if for no other reason than to be worthy of her. At first it was to be worthy of her respect, then her approval, and eventually her love.

And in the blink of an eye, his reason for maintaining that honor disappeared, along with his reason for living. Seconds after saving Jaime from what would have been a death strike, Brienne was struck down. Her concern for him led to her death, for surely if she’d only been focused on protecting herself, she’d have lived. She fell, and Jaime Lannister didn’t scream. He didn’t drop to his knees in despair. He didn’t curse the Gods. He just went on fighting, because his brain didn’t believe his own eyes. He fought as if in a dream, his body moving though his mind wasn’t commanding it. Thrust, parry, block, pivot. Thrust, parry, block, pivot.

And in the ensuing weeks, he was certain he had died on the battlefield with her.

Who was he now, but the commander of the _new_ Royal army? He was not the lover of Brienne of Tarth, one of the greatest knights who ever lived. Nor was he one of Sansa Stark’s few loyal protectors. She didn’t need him anymore. She had Tywin Lannister, she had Sandor Clegane. She had an entire continent of men who apparently loved her, as evidenced by the roars of applause when she addressed her subjects for the first time. The only person who still would like to see her harmed was deep in the cells beneath the Red Keep, sentenced to a lifetime imprisonment. She lived behind a locked door, but even without a door she’d never be able to navigate an escape in the darkness that enveloped so completely that at times the labyrinth seemed never ending.

His own title sounded like a joke. _Ser Jaime Lannister, Master Commander of the Royal Army_. What the fuck did they need an army for? Armies are for fighting other armies, and all the other armies were destroyed or had already pledged fealty to the King and Queen of Westeros.

Jaime chuckled to himself when he thought about how boring his days would be. Boltons, White Walkers, Dothraki Horse Warriors, Cersei’s sellswords, the Ironborn soldiers… He almost wished one of those armies would rise from the dead so he would once again have a tangible foe to direct his ire at. Instead he only had himself. The Kingslayer. The Man without Honor. The Sister Fucker. The old monikers came back, and he wondered if he didn’t welcome them. It was easy being the Kingslayer. It was hard being Jaime Lannister. Most days he wondered why he hadn’t stabbed his own heart yet. What was he holding on for? Who would be hurt by his death? Sansa would mourn him, of course, but her heart was too hardened to lose herself to despair over any man, save perhaps her giant sworn shield.

Tywin? No. If anything Tywin would lament the passing of his heir, but in time Sansa would give him another.

Cersei? No. There was nothing left of the Cersei that loved her twin. And even if there was, she had her own woes.

_Tyrion. Tyrion would miss me._

One person. One person Jaime loved dearly, but still just one person. Not too long ago it had been _two_ , and that felt like more than he deserved. Now it was one, and it felt so brutally inadequate that Jaime wanted to cry. Because Tyrion would move on, too. The brothers had spent much time apart, while Jaime was a prisoner of war, while Tyrion was hiding in Braavos. They cared about each other, but they could live without each other. And soon Tyrion would be back and would be busy in his role of Hand to the Crown. He would help shoulder the burden of speaking to all the lords and ladies of the realm to understand how the Crown could help them. They’d all line up for their hand-out. Those not satisfied with what the Crown could spare would complain. Perhaps they’d try to raise armies or inspire rebellions. Then Jaime would have a purpose again. Until then he was just… adrift.

“Brother,” a voice called from the doorway.

Jaime turned to find Tyrion standing there, his eyes betraying remorse, love, and fear.

“Tyrion,” Jaime replied, his voice breaking with emotion.

The taller man dropped to his knees while the shorter ran to embrace him.

“I’m so sorry, Jaime.”

Jaime said nothing. He did nothing but lean his head on his brother’s small but sturdy shoulder and cry the tears that had been threatening to burst free for so long now.

“I have nothing,” Jaime whispered after some minutes had passed.

He expected Tyrion to lie and tell him how blessed he was. That he had his brother, his father, his queen, his friends. That he had the people’s respect; an important position. But Tyrion said none of those things. Instead he sighed, “But not forever, brother.”

**Tyrion**

Tyrion officially accepted the position of Hand of the Crown the same day Varys was appointed the Master of Whispers. For the time being, Tyrion would also fulfill the role of Master of Coin.

Lord Mathis Rowan surrendered Storm’s End without bloodshed and immediately swore fealty to Tywin and Sansa. Lady Shireen was named Wardeness of the Stormlands, and in her wise little mind she appointed one of Lord Rowan’s sons to be Steward of Storm’s End during her absence – a sign of forgiveness and good faith.

Ser Davos looked flabbergasted when he was named Master of Ships, but he accepted the position only with a caveat – that he be able to split his time between King’s Landing and Storm’s End so he could be with Lady Shireen anytime she stayed in her homeland.

Ser Addam was similarly surprised to be named Master of Laws, and even more shocked to be granted The Twins – the fortress he helped take in the name of the new King and Queen.

When the chubby young maester Tarly arrived to formally pledge his allegiance to the Crown on behalf of House Tarly, which he now ruled, he went white as a sheet when Sansa smiled and told him she’d like him to accept the position of Grand Maester in King’s Landing.

Alysane slapped the stunned maester on the back and told him to say, _“I accept, your graces.”_ It took a few more seconds, but he did.

Tyrion had been the one to record most of the granting of castles and lordships over the weeks that followed the coronation of the new Queen and King. It was enough to make his hand ache terribly. Ser Emmon Frey, Tyrion’s uncle by law, was named regent at Riverrun until Edmure Tully’s son would come of age. Edmure Tully himself had perished in the battle.

Tyrion had to fight back tears when House Tarth was discussed. Brienne’s father had died in the past winter of a fever, leaving House Tarth without heirs. Jaime declined the opportunity to claim it, and Sansa and Tywin instead granted it to Podrick Payne, who also gained a knighthood for valor in battle. Podrick was less skilled when it came to repressing emotions, and Sansa squeezing his hand didn’t help.

Ser Bryan would continue as Lord Protector of the Vale until Sansa named or produced an heir. Tyrion suspected it would be the former, since her first three children would get the Crown, the North, and the Westerlands.

Jon was named Warden of the North and would hold Winterfell in the Stark name. Sansa insisted he not journey to the capital to bend the knee. _“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”_

Dragonstone became property of the Crown and would not have its own lord, though Sansa and Tywin had confided in Tyrion that they may change their stance in the future.

Mina Tyrell, Olenna’s last surviving child or grandchild, was Lady of Highgarden and Wardeness of the Reach. She traveled to King’s Landing to bend the knee and put to bed years of animosity between her family and the Lannister name.

Last but not least, Varys’ pretty young companion, Lady Arianne Martell, was named Wardeness of Dorne. She didn’t look pleased to bend to the tradition of “wardens” instead of “princes”, but the girl was excited to return to her homeland and begin rebuilding without the constant threat of a malevolent queen.

Sandor Clegane became Commander of the Queensguard, which was also comprised of Alysane, Thoros, one knight from the Vale, two guards from Winterfell, and Preston Brance. Arya seemed to be an unofficial member but wouldn’t admit as much.

Tywin had his own Kingsguard comprised of seven knights sworn to House Lannister. Tywin and Sansa agreed to change the rules around the Kingsguard and Queensguard. It wasn’t a lifetime vow, for one. Women were qualified, for two. And its members weren’t prohibited from taking spouses and holding lands. Sansa insisted a king and queen should have the best of the realm’s protectors, not the best among those few men willing to abide by the overly restrictive rules.

The hardest work was ahead of them, but if the first few weeks were any indication, Sansa and Tywin’s reign would be a peaceful one. Then again, Tyrion feared optimism wouldn’t be appreciated by the Gods, so he tried not to let it enter his heart too often.

**Tywin**

“Where do monsters come from?”

Tywin looked at his wife, not sure he heard or understood her properly.

“Pardon?”

“Monsters. Like Ramsay Bolton. And Joffrey. And Gregor Clegane. Where do they come from?”

In there still-new marriage, he’d found this contemplative side of her came out only at night. It was usually after they coupled in a sterile act that was clearly a duty to her, though she never made him feel like the duty was unbearable. Only afterwards, when she expressed such musings, did he realize she’d spent their entire encounter thinking and pondering some subject that had nothing to do with the act itself. As a man, it was hard not to be insulted. But as a pragmatic man, he knew he had no right.

By day she was stoic, self-assured, and decisive. She was a queen in every way.

But by night she asked him questions that made him fully aware that she was young and curious, and for some reason she considered him to be a source of the answers she was seeking. He supposed that if she appreciated his wisdom, it might have to be good enough.

Only, for this particular question, he didn’t have a definitive answer, “I don’t know. They’re just born, I suppose. Like the rest of us.”

“ _Are_ they born though? Or are they _made_? And if so, why does one man become a monster while another has similar life experiences but retains his humanity? And if they’re born, how can one man be born a monster while his brother is not? How could Joffrey and Tommen have come from the same mother and sire? How could Sandor and Gregor?”

“I don’t know. Why are you asking me this?”

She shrugged, “Because if they’re made, they can be _un-made_ , right? And if they’re born, they’re born for a _reason_. The Gods put them here with the rest of us for a reason.”

Tywin snorted, “The _Gods_? If there are any Gods, for what reason do they do anything?”

She was silent for a long time, staring into the flame of the lantern on his bedside table.

“Was the Mad King a monster? I know he was cruel, but was he a true monster?”

Tywin sighed, not caring to think or talk about that man ever again, “How are you defining a monster?”

“Someone who does evil things for no purpose other than his own pleasure. Someone who _enjoys_ inflicting pain, even on those who don’t deserve it.”

Tywin took a deep breath, “Then yes; he was a monster.”

“So Aerys II… Joffrey… Cersei… Three rulers out of the last five have been monsters. Yet not three out of any five random people are monsters. If that was the case the realm would be nothing but corpses by now; there’d be no good people left.”

“What is your point?”

“You don’t find it odd? It’s like the throne itself attracts monsters. Or does it make them monsters?”

“Are you afraid it will make _you_ become a monster? Or make _me_ become a monster?”

She shrugged again, “I don’t know what I’m afraid of.”

“But you _are_ afraid?”

She stood then, covering herself with her robe, though she was already covered. He’d yet to see her in anything less than a shift or sleeping gown.

It seemed she was going to leave without answering his question, but now he was the one with a nagging curiosity, “Sansa – _are_ you afraid?”

She didn’t meet his eyes as she reached for the door handle, “Yes.”

Then she was gone, leaving him with only more questions. But he’d likely never get the answers. The more he came to know of her, the more mysterious she was. Behind vacant eyes she was always thinking, but her mind might as well have been the vast uncharted seas west of Westeros.

**Sandor**

The little wolf bitch had been eying him all day with a coyness that didn’t suit her. Something was on her mind, and though he normally didn’t like to listen to whatever she had to gripe about, he wondered if it had to do with Sansa. Arya was an observant little shit, always watching from the shadows, so if she saw something or someone that might be a threat, Sandor was going to listen.

He sought her out after training, “Talk, little wolf.”

“About what?”

“I repeat – _talk.”_

She huffed in annoyance but then looked away with an odd expression on her face. He’d seen it on Sansa and Jon, but never on her. She looked _embarrassed_.

She crossed her arms as they walked across the courtyard toward the armory where they’d have privacy at this time of day, “I was just wondering…”

“Wondering what, girl?”

“Wondering… how you’re doing... Not because I care, though.”

Sandor stopped in his tracks, “What?”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him into the armory. More accurately, he let her shove him into the armory.

“With this. With all of this. With Sansa being queen and married to the old gray lion.”

Sandor snorted at her depiction, “I’m fine. I knew what was coming.”

“Right, but that doesn’t mean you like it.”

“Of course I don’t bloody like it. But she’s safe. For the first time in years, since she left Winterfell as a little girl, she’s safe. Knowing that goes a long way toward making all this bearable.”

“Right, but aren’t you…”

“What?”

She huffed again. She hated talking this way as much as he did, “Jealous?!”

Lying was tempting but he lied enough each day. Not in spoken words but in actions or inactions. In following Sansa around like he was nothing but her shield after living months in Winterfell as her companion and lover. The men and women here who knew the true nature of their relationship looked at him with pity, which was maddening. The ones that didn’t know drove him mad in a different way. He wanted to shout the truth at them – that he spent nearly every night in his lady’s chambers, in her bed, sometimes just to sleep, sometimes to do much more than sleep.

“Yes I’m bloody fucking jealous,” he growled.

“But you still love her?”

Sandor sighed, “Aye, I still love her.”

“But does it ever make you angry?”

“Bloody hells, girl, what the fuck do you want?”

“I told you… to make sure you’re alright.”

“I’m fine. Are we done now?”

Her eyes darted around the room, “Do you ever wish you had married her? Even if it would have changed things… do you still wish it?”

Sandor sat down on a stool, again contemplating his response. Yes, he wished he had married her. Sometime after the Long Night and before she met with Tywin Lannister at the Moat. Because perhaps it _wouldn’t_ have changed the alliance. Perhaps Tywin would have still supported her, on some other terms. That she’d help him take the throne himself, just as she’d offered. Or that she’d take the throne and name him as her Hand. If marriage wasn’t an option because she was already wed, would Tywin _truly_ have let Cersei and Euron wipe out all of the North? It was a bluff Sansa wasn’t willing to call, but now… now he wished she had.

He sighed, “Aye, I wish I had married her.”

Arya sat down looking defeated.

“Don’t fret over it, little wolf. I’m a tough old dog. Your sister’s love is more than I ever deserved. Certainly more than I ever would have hoped for. I was never meant for the likes of her, so to have any of her… it’s enough.”

Arya stared at him, no doubt thinking he was full of shite. He wasn’t though. His brain knew all this to be true. Only his cock and heart were sometimes unconvinced.

“What’s wrong, girl?”

She huffed again, “It’s stupid.”

“What is? Your sister marrying Lord Tywin?”

“No. I mean yes, that too… but… alright. Knowing what you know about what it feels like to be the _other man_ … if you knew someone in a similar predicament, what advice would you give?”

Sandor threw his head back in laughter, “Someone has caught your eye? I never thought I’d see the day!”

“Not me! Someone else.”

“Girl, if you want my advice, then give me the truth. I’m not going to talk in riddles.”

“Ungh! Fine! Alright, if I think I might fancy someone, but he is a Lord, and that means he will need to marry so he can have his stupid heirs, but I don’t want to be a lady… Do I watch him take a lady wife? Or do I tell him how I feel… how I _might_ feel? But if he feels the same way, then what? Will he want to marry me? _Should_ I marry him? Will he still let me fight and train and wear breeches or will he try to turn me into a lady? Or will he not want to marry me because I’m not ladylike? Then should I be happy being with him in _any_ capacity, even if it means he’ll take another wife someday, and I’ll have to see them together?”

Sandor blinked at her, “That was way too many questions, but it doesn’t matter because there is only one answer. I should have told your sister years ago how I felt about her. And me, nothing but a second son of a nothing house. You’re a fucking princess, even if you don’t look the part. Tell his man how you feel and see if he feels the same.”

“And?”

Sandor shrugged, “And nothing. If he doesn’t then it ends there. If he does, then you decide together what to do. He’ll tell you what he wants, and you’ll tell him what you want. There will either be a common ground or there won’t.”

She nodded though looked frightened by the prospect.

“Sandor?” her voice was small, like he’d never heard it, even when she was a child.

“What?”

Her cheeks flushed, “What if he doesn’t feel the same way?”

Sandor knew his eyes widened. Never had he seen Arya Stark, the girl who tried to stab him and bash him over the head with a rock – on separate occasions – look so meek. He had to remind himself that she wasn’t that pre-pubescent girl anymore. She was a full-grown woman. If women like Brienne of Tarth sought a man’s affection, then surely women like Arya Stark did, as well.

Finally, he answered her, “If that’s your greatest fear, then that should tell you something.”


	128. Disenchantment

**Sansa**

Sansa rubbed her eyes, not caring that it was unladylike. She was exhausted and utterly disheartened. The Crown was a mess. She didn’t know how Cersei had even managed to pay her few remaining loyal men, in the end. The loan from the Iron Bank, which _they_ now needed to repay, was spent entirely on the war effort, from what they could tell.

Each kingdom needed help to rebuild, but they simply did not have the funds to lend. Sansa wondered where all the wealth of Westeros had gone. Tywin was still wealthy, of course, but it seemed every other family was struggling to run their keeps, much less rebuild and plan for the future.

Money had gone to soldiers, of course, but most of them were now dead. Were all the coins of Westeros scattered around, a little in each person’s pocket? That didn’t sound like a bad thing, except those people relied on someone _else_ to employ them, and the people who would employ them – lords and ladies of noble houses – were destitute. Only the Vale had been relatively untouched by the recent wars. The North was also in better shape then Sansa had realized, compared to the other kingdoms. They had seen war and winter but hadn’t had acres upon acres of land and homes scorched by the Dragon Queen. Sansa shook her head, wishing she could kill her all over again.

“Where did all the money go?” she asked her companions, Tywin and Tyrion.

The men looked at each other, clearly not understanding her question.

She huffed, “The gold. The silver. The wealth of Dorne, of the Reach, of the Stormlands… where is it now?”

Tyrion leaned back and laced his fingers, “The Iron Bank, of course.”

Sansa snorted, “And every copper the Crown earns for the next twenty years will go to them, as well.” Sansa didn’t voice the rest of what she was thinking – that if there were no “Crown” the Iron Bank would never be repaid.

They looked over the ledgers again and Sansa became even more frustrated, “The largest expenditure by far is the Royal Army. Yet we have no enemies. We’re paying soldiers to sit on their arses until the next war… which may never come. That money could be going to the farmers that feed the realm. That could go to the keeps that need to be rebuilt.”

Tywin shook his head, “Without an army, the Crown is vulnerable. It is an easy target. I realize the expense seems unnecessary, but I assure you, it is quite necessary to protect and hold the Crown.”

“Ah, the Crown. The _Crown_ needs to be protected. The _Crown_ needs to repay the Iron Bank. I wish the Crown was a bloody person so I could kill it.”

Tyrion chuckled, “The Crown _is_ a person. Or rather, two people.”

Sansa looked up at him, but not in amusement, “All this… all this is so we can rule. Yet we cannot truly rule because we haven’t the money to rule. We haven’t even started renovations on Maegor’s because I don’t want to spend the coin, and yet it’s a pittance compared to what we pour into our armies!”

It was Tywin and Sansa’s first disagreement after their wedding. Sansa didn’t want to live or even step foot in the royal apartments that had been home to Joffrey and Cersei. The very air was tainted with their vileness. They instead lived in Tywin’s apartments in the Tower of the Hand. Tywin had begrudgingly compromised with her – they could live there until Maegor’s had been completely renovated. Sansa didn’t want to ever live there; she had too many terrible memories of the place. It had been her cage for over a year.

“This isn’t productive,” Tywin huffed, “We need to get farmers sowing. We need to get people working. We need to reestablish trade to and from Essos.”

Tyrion nodded, “Yes, and all that takes money. Money we don’t have.”

Tywin flicked his wrist, “Then I’ll lend the Crown the funds. We need to do something and need to do it immediately.”

“Ah, another loan to be repaid,” Sansa sighed.

“Do you have a better idea?” he cocked an eyebrow at her.

_Yes, burn the Red Keep to the ground, along with the cursed throne, and tell the realm to fuck off._

_Gods, I sound like Sandor!_

She shook her head.

“Then it’s settled,” Tywin stated conclusively. He left without another word.

Tyrion and Sansa sat in mutually contemplative silence for some time before Tyrion poured each of them a goblet of wine. He swirled his around thoughtfully and Sansa knew an inquiry was coming.

“How are you, my dear?”

Sansa groaned, “Tired of hearing that question.”

“Oh? Who else is asking?”

Sansa stared at the ceiling, “Sandor, Arya, Thoros… even Lord Varys, Ser Davos… everyone looks like they’re expecting me to break. Worse, they tiptoe around as if afraid that _they’ll_ be the one who breaks me.”

Tyrion nodded, “You know, when my father sent me here to be Hand, he made it clear my utmost responsibility would be to rein in Joffrey.”

Sansa lifted her brows, “A futile endeavor.”

Tyrion chuckled, “Indeed, but I didn’t realize _just_ how futile. I suppose the worst of Joffrey’s tendencies manifested after Robert died. I still imagined a boy. A boy who never had any respect for me, personally, but who I thought might respect my position. My authority. My superior experience and wisdom.”

Tyrion sat down again with a sigh, “I would have failed even if Joffrey was my only responsibility. But it wasn’t. The state of things in general was a mess. The coffers were dreadfully low. Money was owed all over the realm. Oh, and to make matters worse, the smallfolk hated the king and everyone associated with him. The Tyrells had formed a blockade, do you remember? People were starving. People were beginning to revolt. I managed to stave off the Martells by giving them Myrcella, but it only earned me more of Cersei’s disdain, which made my job even more difficult. Why would she help me with Joffrey when I was the one who sent away her darling daughter? Cersei was no fool; she saw the way the wind was blowing, but she would never put aside her pride, her own personal vendettas, to steer her son in a different direction…

Let’s see… then there was the Battle of the Blackwater. We would have lost that, even with my clever strategy to burn Stannis’ fleet, if it weren’t for my father and the Tyrells,” Tyrion shook his head in disappointment. Or perhaps regret.

“What is your point? That I have it easy?”

“Gods no! My point is it’s _never_ easy. The ones who make it look easy are the ones who don’t give a fuck. Robert. Cersei. Aegon II, I imagine. They don’t walk around with dark circles under their eyes because they don’t lose sleep over the issues that you are losing sleep over now.”

Sansa shook her head, “Well, I did once say I envy Cersei her ability to sleep at night.”

“Mmm… I remember. I remember that song you sung, too. I was making rather merry that night, but I remember something about a heart of stone…”

Sansa snorted, “A beating heart of stone.”

Tyrion nodded and let a few moments pass before speaking again, “You didn’t go into this blindly, Sansa. You knew it would be difficult.”

“Indeed. Only now it feels impossible. Nearly three moons, and we haven’t made one damned bit of progress. I thought I could bring peace, but what good is peace when people are hungry? I thought I could feed the people, but how can I feed them if we’ve got no money?”

“My father—”

“Yes, a loan from your father. We’re already crippled with debt.”

“We’re several months into Spring. The crops—”

“There won’t be enough crops! Daenerys scorched so much of Dorne and the Reach that the soil won’t be fertile for years! The North, Riverlands, and Vale were hit hard by winter and have gone through much of their stores. The war destroyed fields and homes… What good am I doing, Tyrion? What good are _we_ doing?”

Tyrion’s eyes narrowed, “Sansa, it takes time. It will take time. You cannot lose faith. You can’t—”

Sansa didn’t hear the rest of his words. She didn’t want to hear them. She didn’t want to be reassured or pacified. She left the room without another word.

Sandor fell in step beside her as she walked with a purpose, “Where are we going, little bird?”

“To the Black Cells.”

“Again? Sansa, this isn’t—”

She held up her hand, “I don’t care.” She hated to speak to him with such disrespect, but she couldn’t help it. Everyone had plenty of words, plenty of advice, plenty of suggestions. But no one had any _answers_ , and at the end of the day, that’s what she needed.

**Cersei**

“Why?” the girl paced back and forth with a frantic energy Cersei hadn’t seen in her previous visits.

“Why what?”

“Why everything?! Why war?! Why were you so _desperate_ to kill me that you took out a massive loan to hire the sellswords? Didn’t you realize what it would do to your kingdom? The people who relied on you?”

Cersei snorted, “Anyone who relies on a ruler is a fool.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Why do you care? Are my motives so fascinating to you? Do you have so much free time on your hands?”

The girl crossed her arms, “Are you going to answer me or not?”

“What do I get if I do?”

“You get the distraction of a conversation. You get to not be alone. You get a few more minutes of lantern light.”

“And what if what I want is _sunlight_? What if I want a bath? Or something more filling than soup and bread?”

“You’re eating no worse than the people surrounding this city. The people you were _supposed_ to protect, to support,” the girl hissed.

Cersei ignored the attempt at insult, “I will talk to you. I will answer your questions. But I want to see the sun. I don’t care if it’s only through a bloody window, so long as I see it.”

The girl lowered herself to the ground, “Fine. But I want the truth.”

“Very well. I did what I did, I went to war against you, because I hate you.”

“That’s it? Then why not send an assassin?”

Cersei scoffed, “When you hate someone, you don’t simply want them dead. You want them to _suffer_... Do you not agree?”

She shook her head, “Why did you hate me?”

Cersei sighed, “I hated your father, meddling in my affairs, when he didn’t know a damned thing about me. I hated your aunt, stealing two men who should have loved me. And I hated you because…”

“Because you believed I killed Joffrey? Or conspired to, at least.”

Cersei shook her head, comprehension dawning only as she spoke, “No. It started before then.”

“I was a child before then. A prisoner of yours. A victim of your son’s menace. What was there to hate?”

“I don’t know,” Cersei leaned back against the stone wall.

Silence passed, and all Cersei thought about was how much time she’d get under the rays of the sun.

Sansa spoke again, “Did you ever care? Did you ever want to be a good queen? A benevolent queen?”

Cersei had never asked this question of herself. She had never thought about it. She offered the only honest answer she could, “I don’t think so.”

More silence passed, and then, “Where do monsters come from?”

“What?”

“Were you born a monster? Or did you become a monster?”

Cersei snorted, “I’m no monster, you stupid little dove.”

The girl looked at her then, with an earnest pleading in her eyes, “How do you know?”

Cersei smiled. This was an interesting game they played, though she wasn’t certain that the girl thought of it as a game. If Cersei was reading her correctly, she was searching for something, and seemed to think Cersei could deliver it. “Because there are no monsters. There are only men. There are men who choose to take what they can, and men who are too afraid to do so.”

“And if what a man wants to take is someone’s life? Someone’s happiness? Does that not make him a monster?”

Cersei waved a hand, “It makes him a man. He can’t help what he wants better than you or I can. Some men want wine. Some want gold. Some want women. Some want men. Some want pain. Some want to kill… Was Robert a _monster_ for wanting to fuck and drink every minute of every day? Was Loras Tyrell a monster for wanting to fuck men? Are you a monster for wanting your _independence?_ Everyone in this realm has the right to seek what they want, even those who seek death and destruction. And if other men _want_ to stop that person, that’s their right, too.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. You ask me, I have more respect for the man who takes what he wants than the one who knows what he wants but is too craven to take it… You asked why I went to war, little dove? I did it because I _wanted_ to.”

“And what do you want now?”

Cersei snorted, “What difference does it make?”

Sansa sighed, “You’re right. It doesn’t matter what you want… not anymore.”

**Sandor**

Sandor stood near the doorway, observing his little bird who sat staring into his empty hearth. It was still chilly at night, but Sandor didn’t care for fire enough to invite it into his room unless absolutely necessary.

He’d seen this look on her face many times since the coronation. He’d seen the look many times since the day he, Beric, and Thoros were dragged into Winterfell. Her eyes were empty and unfocused, her mouth straight. It meant she was thinking, and not of pleasant things.

“You’re not eating enough,” he eventually said.

She turned her eyes toward him just enough to glare, “I eat plenty.”

With a huff he sat on the edge of his mattress, “To stay alive? Aye. But not much more than that.”

“I’m not hungry, Sandor. And I don’t wish to have this conversation.”

He ignored the latter part of her words, “Because of… Ramsay?”

She rubbed her eyes, “No. If you must know it’s because I worry every moment of every single day.”

“For what? You’ve got the throne. Cersei is locked away for good. No one can challenge you two. We’re safe, Sansa. War is over. Yet you walk around like the unhappiest woman in the realm.”

He’d told himself he wouldn’t get irritated but was already losing the battle. He poured himself a goblet of wine and drank half of it in one swig while he tried to get a hold on his emotions.

He expected his words to get a rise out of her; that she’d deny her unhappiness or deny his statement that they were safe. But she only stared back into the empty hearth. He wouldn’t stand for it.

Grasping her chin he raised her face to meet his, “Speak to me, Sansa.”

Silence hung thickly between them. Her normally frozen eyes melted into matching pools of tears, but she never took those eyes off of him.

“It’s all a lie,” she eventually whispered after he’d forgotten to think about anything than her eyes.

“What is?”

She lifted her arms to indicate the space around them, though he was sure she didn’t mean his room in the Tower of the Hand. She was indicating the entire keep, or perhaps the entire city. Nay, perhaps the entire known world.

He jutted his chin toward her, “Go on.”

She shook her head as if disappointed that he didn’t know precisely what she meant, “It’s all a lie and I feel like I’m the only one who sees it… Did you ever read that fairy tale about the evil witch who lures people into her home so she can kill them? She invites in hungry and road-weary travelers for a fine feast. Roasted game hens and suckling pigs, smashed yams and turnips drizzled with honey, bread with plump raisins smothered in fresh butter, cakes and pies and tartes filled with every fruit known to man. Have you read it?”

Sandor shook his head, hiding his surprise that after all these years Sansa Stark was still thinking about fairy tales.

She sighed, “Anyway, the people who are lured by the food are killed after they eat their fill. You see, she herself doesn’t eat any food like you and I eat. She eats _souls_ , collecting them within herself and growing stronger as a result.”

Sandor said nothing but listened intently.

“One day a young boy is traveling through her woods. His family had recently died of a pox infection. He is trying to get to his uncle’s farm… anyway, he is lured into the witch’s cottage, but he sees the feast for what it really is, instead of the curse the witch puts on it to trick all the others. It isn’t chicken and bread and cakes and such. It is the cooked flesh of her previous victims. But the boy is clever. He knows the witch is too powerful for him to escape if he simply tries to leave. So he must trick her…

The boy talks about his life, his innocence, making his soul sound so desirable that the witch cannot resist him. She _needs_ to have his soul. You see, the younger the better for her. The younger the soul the less tainted it has been by the world, though she settles for whomever passes through her lands…

Meanwhile the boy hasn’t taken a bite of the food, and it takes all the witch’s patience to watch him talk without eating the tainted fare she offers… eventually he picks up a chicken leg – or what is supposed to be a chicken leg, the reader knows. To the boy and the witch it looks like a man’s index finger. The boy stares at it, and the witch is now practically salivating for the boy’s soul. He raises the finger to his mouth but stops. He politely and oh-so-innocently tells the witch that he isn’t supposed to eat food from someone he doesn’t know, lest it be poisoned. To prove to him it isn’t pointed, even though in a sense it is, the witch grabs another finger and takes a bite. Seconds after she swallows it, she keels over, dead. Her beauty spell now gone, the boy sees the ancient, wrinkled body that was the witch’s true form.”

Sandor shook his head, “How did he know how to kill her?”

Sansa shrugged, “That isn’t the point. The point is he saw through the illusion and so he lived. All the others didn’t – and so they died.”

“But the witch – why did she eat the finger if she knew it would kill her?”

“Perhaps she _didn’t_ know. Perhaps it was the Gods who saw fit to make sure she could be killed, if someone would just figure out the way. I prefer to believe she did know, but in that moment, she was blinded by her desire for the boy’s pure soul. She wanted it so singularly that she stopped thinking about what it would cost her.”

Sandor crossed his arms, “So that was one of your fairy stories? I thought they were all about handsome knights and pretty princesses falling in love.”

Sansa smiled, for perhaps the first time in days, “Some of them are, but you’d be surprised how many are more frightening tales. Even the seemingly benign stories often have tragic endings. The knight arrives to save the princess only moments after she’d cut her own throat because she’d given up on being rescued. Or after marrying the lady above his station, the knight is executed by her father.”

Sandor stared at her dumbly, “That’s the shite you were reading when you were a child? Bugger me, they let little ladies read such dark tales?”

Sansa giggled, “You always said life isn’t a fairy tale or song. But the more I see, the more I’m convinced that life _is_ a fairy tale.”

“Aye… so why did you tell me about this witch and the boy? What does it have to do with whatever is troubling you?”

She lifted a shoulder, “Because this is all an illusion, or rather a lie, and I’m the only one who sees it.”

“ _What_ is? The Crown? The City?”

She nodded, “The Crown. The throne… Why does it exist, Sandor? Tell me.”

“To rule all the kingdoms,” he huffed.

“ _How_ is it ruling?”

“By… I don’t know, Sansa. By writing the laws of the land, then enforcing them.”

“Wrong. The laws of the land don’t need to be written. Each kingdom has had its own for millennia. There are subtle differences, of course. Inheritance laws in Dorne are different than in the other kingdoms, but each kingdom has laws against theft, rape, assault, murder… and each kingdom enforces them. Try again.”

“Fine, then the throne exists to… to unite everyone. In the event of a foreign invader…”

“Like Daenerys Targaryen? Despite the crown’s existence, few of the kingdoms chose to band together to fight. The Crown couldn’t force Highgarden to join with the Westerlands or even the Crownlands, could it? What about Dorne or the Stormlands? In fact, the kingdoms that unified – the North, West, and Riverlands, did so _in spite of_ the woman on the throne… and you’re forgetting the throne itself was _created_ by a foreign invader. How could it represent unity against a foreign invader when the thing already represents the _power_ of a foreign invader?!”

“Fine. So how about you tell me what the throne is for?”

Sansa let out a mirthless chuckle, “It’s for nothing. The throne exists to ensure the throne continues to exist. That’s it.”

“What?”

Sansa sighed, “Each kingdom pays taxes to the Crown, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And what does the Crown do with those monies?”

Sandor shrugged, “Protect the capital and surrounding lands—”

“Protect from what?”

“From someone who wishes to take the throne… oh.”

Sansa smiled as she saw his recognition, “Yes. The people’s taxes go toward a few things. One is making sure the royal family are safe and content. Lavish feasts, expensive wine, comfortable rooms… all the luxuries a person could want. But the majority, by far, goes to the Royal Army and fleet. Yet, does this help the people? Does it help the people of King’s Landing, much less the people as far south as Sunspear or as far north as Last Hearth?”

Sandor shook his head, “No. It protects the people sitting the throne.”

“Precisely. Oh… and it also makes sure the monies keep flowing in. For if the Crown has the largest, strongest army, the kingdoms will be less inclined to withhold their tax payments.”

“So what are you suggesting then?”

Sansa snorted, “Absolutely nothing. Because what can I do? I made a deal to save my people and lands. Now I have to honor it. I have to honor it by ruling as Queen. By living here, so far from any place I’d call home. By laying with the king. And when I made that deal, I rationalized that I could do some good. That I could see to it that people never went hungry, were never thrust into war against their choice. For now we’ve given them the latter, but for how long? The allure of the throne is more than some men can resist, just as some men couldn’t resist the _feast_ laid out before them in the witch’s cottage. Just like the witch couldn’t resist the allure of a tender young soul…

The people are hungry, Sandor. The entire continent is facing a food shortage thanks to the destruction of one woman – one woman who sought the throne because of a sense of birthright. She didn’t care that her ancestors were the foreign invaders. She didn’t care that they were only successful because of dragonfire. She was not a stupid woman, she was not a rash woman, and yet she let the allure of the throne drive her to make stupid and rash decisions. Its shiny appeal blinded her from thinking logically, like the flame that draws in the moth, or the lure that draws in the fish…

So everyone is hungry. Tywin’s gold only helps to a point because you can’t buy food if there isn’t food available for purchase. There’s a reason during long, Northern winters a pound of wheat is worth more than an ounce of gold. Did you know this?”

Sandor shook his head.

She nodded, “So they starve now, despite the _Crown’s_ good intentions and best efforts. They starve, and you ask why I’m not eating? How can I summon an appetite when so many others go without? I told them if they suffered, I would suffer with them. The reality is it isn’t even a choice. I can’t _not_ suffer. And someday there _will_ be war. As sure as the sky is blue, there will be someone who wants the throne because of the _power_ they think it will give them. Can you imagine?” she laughed, “ _Power?_ I am the most powerless woman in the realm! A farmer’s wife is having more of an impact than I am… a woman who hauls buckets from the well is more important in times like these than a queen is. I want to go out to the nearest farm and help them cultivate the soil or plant seeds or feed their horses or… or whatever menial task they give me. I want to do something other than sit here, _ruling_.”

Her eyes glistened once more, “Because sitting here, I’m just a waste of space. A waste of the food I eat, the water I drink. I’m…” she sighed, “I’m nothing.”

Sandor moved to place a hand on her shoulder. For once he could find nothing wrong in her words of self-loathing. No hole or loose thread. There was nothing he could say to convince her she was wrong because she wasn’t wrong. And he wouldn’t lie to her. So instead he sighed, “If you’re nothing, then what does that make the man whose job is to protect you?”

Sansa snorted a genuine laugh, “I suppose you’re nothing too, then. We’re a bunch of nothing.”

“Aye. Like an earthworm at the Wall.”

Sansa looked up at him, eyes bearing surprise, “You remember that?”

“Aye. Though in my experience I felt more like a speck of dust… So what say you? Want to be nothing but two specks of dust floating around aimlessly?”

She shrugged, “We already are.”


	129. Walking

**Sansa**

Sansa woke restless in the night, or more precisely, had never fallen asleep at all; not really. She dropped in and out of twilight. She pondered Cersei’s words... _I went to war because I wanted to._

 _Want_ …

_What do I **want**?_

She wanted many things that were no longer options for her. Many things that were out of the reach of a queen. She wanted a simple life. She wanted freedom. She wanted…

She wanted to walk. Like she used to walk at Winterfell.

She dressed quietly so as not to wake Sandor who snored lightly beside her, then began to walk. Out of the Tower, into the courtyard. She hid beneath the hood of her cloak, drawing little attention. Only when she reached the gates did she reveal herself, so she’d be allowed to pass. The guards looked uncertain, naturally, but it wasn’t their place to deny their queen’s command.

She walked down the streets of the city, blending in with the few other people out and about at this time. A few drunken men whose legs didn’t carry them all the way home. A few ladies of the night, likely retuning from the homes of their paying customers. No one bothered looking twice at the woman in the plain brown cloak.

She walked with no destination in mind, compelled by the notion that she would be led somewhere that might offer her some… _something._ Peace of mind. Answers. A sense of worth.

She zigzagged down streets until she was deep in the slums of Flea Bottom, but she didn’t turn back. She passed houses that still showed signs of life at this late (or early) hour – lanterns illuminating the humble spaces within, distant voices, some happy, some angry. She kept walking, wondering if her legs might carry her out of King’s Landing to some place made just for her. Some sheltered place she could live as just another person. A commoner.

Her sleep-deprived mind had mad musings, or rather musings that would sound mad if voiced aloud. But to her they made so much sense. She imagined herself disappearing amongst the commoners. She imagined she wouldn’t be Sansa Stark anymore. Tywin would send search parties far and wide – another waste of coin – but she’d be hidden in plain sight. Eventually they’d give up looking for her, assume her to have been kidnapped or killed. They’d mourn her, but she would not mourn the life she’d left behind – only a few of the people in it. Sandor. Arya. Jaime. Tyrion. Thoros. Alysane.

At that thought she realized her fantasy was no fantasy at all. The people in her life were her reason for living and reason for ruling. They counted on her and Tywin to keep the peace – to give the realm respite from war. It was an odd realization that the war had lasted six years, in some form or another. Six years between the Battle of Golden Tooth – the first true combat event in the Five Kings War – and Cersei Lannister being stripped of her crown. It was less than a third of Sansa’s life, yet she could hardly remember her life up to that point. She could no longer remember the way her mother’s caress felt, or the precise timbre of her father’s voice. Was Robb’s hair the same shade of Tully red as Sansa’s? Or was it auburn – Stark mixed with Tully? What was Bran’s favorite color? What was Rickon’s favorite lullaby?

Robb Stark was one of the many lords who started or expanded the war. Robb, Stannis, Renly, Edmure, Joffrey, Tywin, Balon… Sansa Stark was one of the few who finished it. She had started one battle and finished three wars. She had brought battle to Winterfell to evict the Boltons from a place they had no right to claim, then she finished the millennia’ old war between the living and the dead, then the months’ long war between Westeros and the Dragon Queen, then the years’ long war between Cersei Lannister and everyone that wasn’t Cersei Lannister. _Ending_ wars she was good at, she could admit without arrogance; but could she prevent war? Only time would tell.

The sound of crying roused her from her thoughts and led her left at the next cross street.

Sitting outside one of the many narrow rowhouses was a small child. Across the street a couple watched the child warily from their porch.

As Sansa approached, she saw it was a little girl that was crying, probably three years old.

Sansa crouched down before her, “Child, why are you crying?”

The girl had her hands pressed to her ears, but Sansa knew her words had been heard. The girl looked up and Sansa could see where her tears had cleaned away the dirt from her pale skin. Her hair was ash blond, her eyes hazel or green – it was difficult to discern in the unlit streets of Flea Bottom.

“Mama,” the girl answered.

“Where is your mama, sweet girl?”

The girl dropped one hand from her ear long enough to point at the house directly behind her. The house was quiet and dark.

“Is this your home?” Sansa asked.

The girl nodded, both hands now back on her ears.

“Your mother is in there?”

The girl nodded again.

Sansa held out a hand for the girl to take. Timidly, and after several seconds, the girl complied. Sansa pulled her up into her arms, holding the girl on her hip the way she used to hold Rickon. Sansa pulled her hood down, realizing the girl might be relieved to see the face of the person who had come to her aid. Sansa smiled at the girl. The girl reluctantly smiled back as she stared at Sansa’s hair in childlike wonderment.

“Kwee Sa-Sa,” the girl whispered.

Sansa couldn’t help but widen her smile, “Yes, child. I’m Queen Sa-Sa. Let’s go find your mother.”

“Da!” the girl shouted.

“Your father?”

The girl covered her ears again as she nodded.

“He is inside, too?”

She nodded but her tears began flowing again.

“I understand… tell me your name, child.”

“Anya,” she answered back in a timid voice.

“Anya? How pretty! Did you know my sister’s name is _Arya_? It’s close to your name, don’t you think?”

The girl – Anya – nodded again through her tears.

Sansa placed her back down on the street, “Sit here, Anya. I’m going to speak to your mother and father. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself at night.”

Sansa suspected she would walk in to find the parents were bickering, but it was no excuse for them to leave their young daughter alone in the streets of Flea Bottom in the early hours of the morning. Sansa found there was little she could do, as Queen, to better the lives of those around her; but if she could use her authority to put some sense into poor Anya’s parents, it would be _something_ , at least.

She straightened her back and knocked on the door, but no one responded.

_Have they drunk so much they passed out, forgetting about their child left out in the street?!_

After another knock went unanswered Sansa turned the knob, finding it unlocked. She entered into a narrow hallway presenting only two options – up a set of stairs or straight back to the rear of the house. She chose the latter, walking quietly until a lantern lit room came into view. Through the threshold she could only see straight back to the rear wall.

As she stepped into the room quietly, she first looked right to find a hearth with a pot of tonight’s supper still hanging within. She quickly looked left and the first thing she saw was a man standing in the corner, his eyes fixed on the floor before him. Sansa followed his eyes down to see a woman, beaten and bloodied. The man didn’t seem to notice Sansa until she shrieked at the realization that the woman’s neck was twisted in an unnatural manner. Then the man’s bloodshot eyes found her, looking shocked then angry.

Sansa turned so quickly she bumped into the wall of the narrow hallway but didn’t let it stop her. She ran straight through the still open front door, scooping up Anya and running as quickly as she could back in the direction she had come. The couple across the street were still watching but doing nothing to offer aid to the little girl or the queen – if they had even recognized Sansa as the queen in the dim light.

Upon hearing footsteps behind her she shouted for help at the top of her lungs. She couldn’t outrun this man all the way back to the Red Keep, certainly not while carrying a child. If no one interceded on her behalf, at best she could outrun him for a while and then put Anya down, commanding the child to keep running while Sansa, hopefully, put up enough of a resistance to buy the girl time to get far away.

She rounded the corner she’d come from and ran straight into someone.

“Help, please!” she screamed, until she looked up and realized she’d run into Thoros.

“Thoros! There is a man, please!” Sansa turned but the man who’d been chasing her stopped at the sight of the armed guard and began retreating backwards toward his house.

“Over here! I’ve found her!” Thoros shouted loudly as he left Sansa and gave pursuit.

Three shadows materialized from side streets in opposite directions, all running toward Sansa. As they got closer, she recognized the shadows were Jaime, Sandor, and Alysane.

Sandor growled, “What in bloody hells are you doing out here?! And who—”

“Please, you have to help Thoros – he gave chase and—”

Sansa turned to find Thoros banging on the door of the house Sansa had recently vacated. She knew what she must do.

She turned to face Jaime but spoke to the girl whose face was hidden in her shoulder, “Anya, sweet girl. This is my dear friend, Ser Jaime. You must go with him. He will take you to the Red Keep. You’ll be safe there. I will be just a few minutes behind you, alright?”

The girl shook her head violently against Sansa’s neck.

“Look, sweet child,” Sansa pointed at Jaime’s face, “He has blond hair just like you. Almost as pretty as yours… don’t you think?”

Anya peered up at Jaime but still did not let go of Sansa.

“He is a very silly man, Anya.”

At Sansa’s words, Jaime crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Anya giggled.

“See? Why don’t you spend a few minutes being silly with Ser Jaime? I promise I’ll be right behind you. Then we can eat sweetbread and honeyed milk together – does that sound good?”

Anya nodded and released her hold on Sansa’s neck, allowing Jaime to take her in his arms.

Sansa smiled at the girl as Jaime carried her, Anya watching over Jaime’s shoulder until they were out of view. Then her smile dropped. With a nod she silently instructed Alysane and Sandor to follow her to the house. Thoros was standing outside the door, having given up on knocking.

“Kick it open,” Sansa instructed. Sandor made short work of the task, then stepped into the hallway, his sword drawn. Thoros followed behind him, then Sansa, with Alysane taking up the rear.

They found the man in the same room, this time cradling his wife’s dead body. “Help!” he cried, “Someone has killed my wife!”

“Aye, someone has,” Sansa answered sharply, “You.”

“No!”

Sansa hissed, “ _Yes_. I saw you looming over her with none of the remorse that you are now feigning. I saw her blood splattered on your face. And don’t try to tell me that beneath your poor wife’s blood we won’t find your knuckles cut open.”

The man stood up, hands clasped together, pleading, “Your grace, I beg you. I don’t know what got into me. I… I don’t remember anything.”

“I don’t care,” Sansa spit, “Your baby daughter sat outside, alone, listening while you beat her mother to death.” Sansa straightened her back and reined in her emotions, “Lady Alysane, remind me what the women of Bear Island do to men who hurt women…”

Alysane smiled chillingly, “As with all offenses, your grace, the punishment fits the crime.”

Thoros’ eyes went wide, “What do you do if the crime is rape?”

Alysane stared at him blankly, her eyes holding the vulgar answer.

“Oh,” was all Thoros said.

Sansa nodded, “A simple system. I like it. Would you care to do the honors?”

Alysane handed her axe and shortsword to Sansa, “With pleasure.”

…

The sky was beginning to brighten when Sansa entered Jaime’s chambers. Anya was asleep in his bed while Jaime sat sentry in a chair.

“What happened?” he immediately asked.

Sansa stroked a finger down Anya’s still-dirty cheek, “I found her sitting all alone, crying in the street. I went into her house to find her parents, only to find her father had killed her mother. Beaten her and snapped her neck, by the look of it.”

“My Gods, Sansa!”

“I know,” she nodded, “I’m not sure if Anya knows her mother is dead, but I’m sure she knows that her father was… hurting her.”

“The poor child… has the father been arrested?”

Sansa shook her head, “No. Lady Alysane delivered Bear Island justice.”

Jaime snorted, “I’ve heard of it. I won’t claim to protest. So what of Anya? Will you have her taken to an orphanage on the morrow?”

Sansa sighed, taking one of the unoccupied chairs, “I realize there are hundreds of children living in such facilities, but it feels wrong to bring her there. Perhaps I could find a lady of court willing to adopt her? She’s a pretty child.” As those words came out of her mouth, a thought occurred to Sansa. She glanced casually toward Jaime, “Would you mind… perhaps… looking after her until I find someone to take her permanently?”

Jaime started to protest but Sansa spoke over him, “I know I’m asking a lot. I will help you, of course, and have a nurse assigned. I would watch her myself, but I spend much of my time at court or in meetings.”

“Surely there is someone else more—”

“She went to you freely, Jaime. I don’t want to pass her off to another person. The girl has already lost her parents. Perhaps it will be easier for her if she sees the same familiar face each day.”

Jaime sighed, “I suppose. Until you find someone to take her permanently, as you say.”

Sansa thanked Jaime profusely even as she could already see the idea of caring for the poor child was not such a burden to him. With a smile on her lips she proceeded to what was sure to be a less pleasant conversation.

**Tywin**

Tywin unleashed all his fury on the Hound so that it wouldn’t overtake his senses when dealing with his wife. He was livid that Sansa had left the keep unaccompanied. He was livid that the guards at the gate had _let_ her leave. He was livid that, upon being notified by those same guards that the Queen had left, her _Queensguard_ didn’t immediately inform him. Instead they took it upon themselves to search the city for her, asking anyone they came across if they’d seen a cloaked woman pass by.

They were lucky to find Sansa before harm had befallen her, but Tywin was still livid. The Hound took the tongue lashing stoically and didn’t insult Tywin by offering excuses. They both knew why he hadn’t woken Tywin – he didn’t want to bring Tywin’s anger down on Sansa.

Her guards were loyal, Tywin could respect that, even if in this case their actions had been the definition of foolishness.

The sun was on the rise when Sansa came to him, appearing humble but not nearly contrite enough.

“Why?” he asked.

She met his gaze, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or won’t say?”

She remained silent.

Tywin sighed, “Your late friend Petyr Baelish told me you were suicidal. I didn’t believe him, just as I didn’t believe most of the words that came out of his mouth, but I’m beginning to wonder—”

“It _wasn’t_ that,” she stated firmly.

“Then what was it?”

She sat on the edge of his bed, “I… I never wanted this… you know. Nonetheless, I thought I could find purpose in it. Find fulfillment. I thought I could do some good. But I can’t. I haven’t… The only good deed I’ve done since putting on the crown has been wandering out to Flea Bottom and saving a little girl from her violent father, then seeing justice done for the girl’s deceased mother. So don’t expect me to regret whatever foolishness drove me out there to begin with.”

He processed her words but couldn’t agree with them. How could she think she wasn’t making a difference? She’d been instrumental in ending a war and delivering to Westeros the peace that had been evading it for years.

“You brought the realm _peace_ , Sansa.”

She snorted bitterly, “I stopped a war. But _peace_ is more than just the absence of war, isn’t it?”

Tywin sighed, “You are ruling well, Sansa. You are deciding the issues of the realm fairly. People are no longer afraid to come before the court as they were with Joffrey and Cersei. Even I couldn’t give them that – they’d see me as just another lion. I know you want to see more progress, but we’ve spoken about this already – these things take time. You told the people as much.”

“It takes more than time. It takes resources. It takes manpower and gold and even a bit of luck. And for what? To rebuild the realm in the same mold that has failed time and time again? Rebuild our keeps, revitalize our lands, repopulate our livestock. All so it can be decimated the next time someone decides to wage war?”

“Perhaps _that_ is how you will change things, Sansa. Do you not recall the reason I wanted you by my side to begin with? So that together we will be respected, loved, and feared. Who will seek to usurp our reign if we are loved by the smallfolk – if _you_ are loved?”

She stood up abruptly, “Loved?” she snorted, “Perhaps if the smallfolk have fuller bellies, they will love me. Perhaps if their issues are heard fairly in court, they will love me. But they aren’t the ones we have to worry about, are they? Smallfolk don’t start rebellions. The men who have the power to lead an uprising are the _lords._ Jon Arryn. Ned Stark. Robert Baratheon. Robb Stark. Stannis Baratheon. Renly Baratheon. Balon Greyjoy. … There will always be men who aren’t happy enough with their station, or who think they can rule the realm better than we can. When that day comes, it won’t matter if the peasants of King’s Landing love me.”

“And what if the peasants of _every_ kingdom love you?” He thought he had her there, but she only stared back, emotionlessly.

Tywin knew that meant he’d hit a wall. With a sigh he changed the subject, “What of the child?”

“She is safe. I left her with Jaime.”

“Were there no maids or nurses available?” he asked rhetorically.

She stared at him again, so intently it made him feel like he was wilting. She took a deep breath, “Perhaps Jaime is good for her. Perhaps she is good for Jaime. Good night, husband.” She left his room quickly, giving him no opportunity to continue the discussion.

Tywin sat down with a huff. He didn’t regret his choice for queen, but she was making it hard to not be frustrated. She was doing an admirable job but never allowed herself to recognize it. It wouldn’t do; if she thought she was failing the people, it would break her.

Tywin thought back to what Tyrion had told him about Sansa the night she and her people arrived at Casterly Rock. Tyrion praised the young Queen in the North at length, but one particular part of his appraisal had struck Tywin so much that he had committed it to memory: _She is stronger than any man I’ve ever met, and yet she’d never admit it, even to herself. She spends every day trying to be worthy – though who or what she is trying to be worthy of I truly know not._

At the time Tywin thought it was the greatest indicator that she’d be an excellent queen. Joffrey, Cersei, Robert… they never tried to be _worthy_. And they were more than happy to admit to whatever their _perceived_ qualities were. Few Targaryens ever strived to be worthy. Tywin had heard Tyrion’s words and immediately thought of himself. Since taking over the role of Lannister patriarch when he was barely finished puberty, he had never stopped working. There was always something he was aspiring to, yet he never felt like he’d achieved it. Not when the Mad King was dead, Cersei and Robert were on the throne, and the realm would enjoy nearly two decades of peace. Not when he himself took the throne with Sansa by his side and all of Westeros united behind them.

But where Sansa tended to dwell on whatever her perceived failures were, Tywin was always moving forward, always working toward the next thing. It’s not that Sansa spent her days wallowing in self-pity; in fact she ruled quite capably, utilizing the knowledge gained from running the North during winter and war. But Tywin could see in her eyes that she was suffering. Was it merely temporary? Was being back in this place fraying her nerves? Was she struggling to adjust to her expanded responsibilities? Tywin could abide an adjustment period but could not abide a queen who fell into spells of self-imposed grief and walked out, unguarded, into the streets of Flea Bottom.

He found himself outside Jaime’s door a few minutes later, though could hardly remember the walk over. Jaime let him in and led him quietly to sit in the side room so they wouldn’t disturb the dirty orphan girl sleeping in his bed. Tywin growled but didn’t waste his breath pointing out the many reasons the situation was inappropriate.

“I suppose you’re here to scold me,” Jaime stated once they were seated at his small table.

“No, though I should.”

Jaime nodded, “Probably, but it wouldn’t make a difference. We all owe her our lives and our honor; that kind of loyalty can’t be intimidated into a person.”

Tywin huffed, “Fine. As I said, it’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Your queen… your goodmother… she is troubled.”

Jaime shrugged, “And?”

“And… I need to understand it. Is this a pattern? Is this _who she is_ , or will it get better in time?”

Jaime sighed, clearly thinking about how to respond.

Unsurprisingly, Tywin didn’t get the clear and simple answer he was seeking.

“Sansa has suffered for six years, father. _Six years._ And I don’t mean suffering the way we all have suffered. I mean deep, unyielding suffering. The type that scars one’s very soul. Losing her family members one by one. Being Joffrey’s favored whipping post. Being Littlefinger’s… _daughter_. Being tortured by Ramsay Bolton. And I do mean _tortured_ , father. Her time as Lady Bolton makes my time as a prisoner of war look like a holiday. She has been injured in battle; she has been _killed_ in battle. She has been nearly killed by assassins. She has been injured in battle _again_ , then held prisoner and tortured some more. She has had to steer a kingdom through preparations for an unwinnable war and ultimately give herself to a man she doesn’t love, come to live in a city she despises, to make that war winnable. She has been helpless as her brother was tortured. She has lost members of her pack – Theon Greyjoy, Ser Beric… Brienne… You ask if this is a pattern? I ask why you need to ask that question at all.”

Tywin shook his head, “So this is who she is then? This sullen girl who cannot see herself as others do? Who walks out into the streets like she has a death wish?”

Jaime smiled in an almost patronizing way, “No, Father; it isn’t who she is. The real Sansa Stark? You’ll find her in the spaces in between. The lady who makes clothes for her people, as if she doesn’t have enough to do. The lady who takes in injured strays – maimed knights, thrice-burned dogs, turncloaks seeking redemption – and feeds and nurtures them until they become better than they ever were. Who she is, is the woman who offers wisdom to a man twice her age, but who is a novice when it comes to love. Who she is, is the lady who lets her pack gather around her to be warmed by her sun. Who she is, is the lady who laughs, sings, dances, and plays drinking games; who bears her soul through her songs. Who puts her scars on display to inspire her war-weary people. Don’t look for her at court or at small council meetings; don’t look for her during battle. You won’t find her there.”

Tywin nodded, “She will… Do you think she can be that person _here_?”

Jaime smiled, “It isn’t the place, it’s the people, that bring that person out. I’m sure right now Sansa is stuck thinking about things ten levels deeper than you or I ever worry about. That’s also who she is, though it’s not one of her more pleasant qualities. She will sort herself out. All any of us can do is be there when she’s stuck and be there when she’s un-stuck.”

Tywin didn’t like situations or people he could not control. He could be patient for years while his plans were being executed, but to hear that he was powerless to force his young wife out of her current spell was something he couldn’t expect.

With another curt nod, he left to simmer in his thoughts.

**Addam**

“So you’re a fancy lord now…” Lady Arya had appeared out of nowhere and now towed the dirt in the training yard while Addam sipped water and caught his breath.

“A lord, aye. Not sure how fancy I am.”

Arya stood with her arms crossed and a bored expression affixed to her face. Addam knew her well enough by now to know that she acted bored when she was actually quite interested in the topic at hand. Moreover, she was a free spirit – coming and going as she pleased, with no real duty to tie her to one spot for long – so if she chose to be in a particular place, it’s because she _wanted_ to be there. If she chose to start a conversation, it’s because she wanted to have it.

“Seems pointless – why name you Lord of the Crossing when you have to be in King’s Landing as Master of Laws? You can’t be in two places at once.”

Addam wiped sweat-damp hair from his brow, “Most on the small council are also lords or ladies of some other place… Hells, Lord Lannister is the King _and_ the Warden of the West.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t stupid.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her blunt words, “Well, what’s it to you?”

Arya shrugged, feigning indifference, “So will you spend any time in the Riverlands, then?”

“I suppose I will. Perhaps twice a year, stay there for a moon, make sure things are running smoothly, that there are no problems.”

Arya grunted a response.

“What about you, my lady? Are you going to stay in the capital with your sister or head back north?”

“Haven’t decided. Sansa’s a queen now, needs all the protection she can get. But I don’t care for how hot it is here. Oh and don’t call me your lady – haven’t I told you that already?”

Addam held up his hands, “My mistake.”

“Anyway,” Arya sighed, “there is a third option…”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It’s stupid, but I can have the Vale if I want it. Sansa named me her heir before the war. Unless she pops out four healthy kids with the old fart, the Vale is mine if I want it.”

Addam stifled a chuckle. Only Arya Stark had the gumption to refer to Tywin Lannister as an ‘old fart’ when speaking to one of his closest retainers.

“And do you?”

“I dunno… Never wanted to be a lady. I think I could do it though. Seems pretty easy. Just make decisions and let other people carry out your orders. Not sure why Sansa acts like it’s such a burden… I once told her to take the throne then let Tyrion run the kingdom and spend her days drinking and fucking. You know, like King Robert did.”

Addam felt his cheeks flush, “I think perhaps your sister is doing things the right way. But you didn’t answer my question.”

She shrugged again, “I guess if I had a steward and maester that could do all the ledgers and stuff like that, then I could focus on the things I’m good at, like maintaining our army and guard. Keeping the lands safe; judging criminals. I guess it would be kind of fun – having the famed Knights of the Vale at my disposal. And getting to push rapers and murderers through the moon door… Sansa told me about it. Sounds like a pretty terrifying way to die,” Arya smiled and Addam was fairly certain she was imagining such executions – _fondly_.

“So what’s the downside?”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Being in one place all the time. Sounds boring. Having people call me ‘my lady’… that’s just torturous. And… well… they’ll expect me to marry.”

“You’ll be their lady – you can order them to call you ‘wolf bitch’ like Clegane does, if you want. And you can travel whenever you want, so long as you have capable and trusted men running things for you. As for the last part – is that such a bad thing?” Addam wasn’t sure why he felt emotionally invested in her answer, but there was no point in denying the fact to himself.

“I’m not a prude, if that’s what you’re asking!”

“It wasn’t.”

“Oh… well, yes, it could be a bad thing. I don’t want to marry some crusty old cunt who’s going to make me wear dresses and dance and sing and sit there looking pretty while _he_ is in charge,” she crossed her arms defiantly.

Addam couldn’t hold back the belly laugh that poured out of him, “My la— _Arya_ – I fear for the man who tries to put you in a dress or turn you into a wallflower. Times are changing, young Stark. The Queensguard has a female member. Yara Greyjoy is Queen of the Iron Islands. Your sister is Queen of Westeros. There are _Wardenesses_ for the Stormlands, Dorne, and Reach. Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen have instilled more fear into the masses than any man living… Your sister’s name is spoken with reverence and fear. _The woman who killed the Night King… the Dragon Queen… Ser Robert Strong._ _Who outsmarted and outmaneuvered Euron Greyjoy and Cersei Lannister._ They call her the _Queen of Death_ and say it as a compliment! And _you_ – half the realm believes you can warg into a wolf and kill any who threaten your family. _All_ the realm knows you avenged your brother and mother, wiping out an entire _other_ family to do so, just as your sister wiped out the Boltons. There are songs being written about the dangers of provoking a wolf… Let’s see, there’s also one about how lions have fearsome roars, but it's the wolf’s silent stalking that one should truly fear... When rumor of Cersei’s plan to use wildfire got out, some minstrel wrote a song about how imposter queens use fire, but the real queen smothers it with ice...”

Addam felt like he could go on all day. The resilient Stark siblings were becoming living legends. Even Jon, who had never stepped foot in the capital, was something of a lady’s fantasy. The last _male_ wolf, every maiden in the realm seemed to want a chance to become his she-wolf.

“What’s your point?”

Ignoring propriety, Addam tugged her by the chin, wanting her to know how serious he was, “That no man with half a brain would try to tame you, she-wolf. And the _right_ man would love you just as you are, and let you live and rule as you see fit. He’d be your confidante and advisor, but he’d never try to tie you down. Do you understand me?”

She nodded within his grasp, her eyes never leaving his.

He dropped his hand from her chin and looked away, remembering his place, and reminding himself that she was a girl coming to him for advice, and nothing more.

“Addam?”

His head snapped up. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her use his given name. “Yes?” he replied, after getting over the sense of surprise.

“When we approached the Twins you said it would be an honor to die by my side…”

“I did. And I meant it.”

She nodded before looking to the ground sheepishly, “Would it also be an honor… to… _live_ by my side?”

Addam was taken aback by her words and cautioned himself against reading into them. Was she implying a romantic relationship, or something more like an alliance?

Like someone a good twenty years younger, his voice broke when he answered, “It would.”

She nodded again, still without looking up. She drew patterns in the dirt with her boot, “The Eyrie and the Twins aren’t that far apart. A fortnight. Maybe less in good weather…”

“Aye…”

She shrugged, “And I think, even if I accept my sister’s offer, I’ll still want to spend time here. Keeping my sister out of trouble and all. Making sure the old lion doesn’t get too full of himself…”

Addam smiled, “Makes sense.”

“And you’ll be here a lot, too…”

“Aye, that I will.”

Without raising her head he could see her eyebrows lift, “It just makes sense, is all I’m saying…”

“Aye. Makes sense.”

They were both silent then, almost uncomfortably so. Her head eventually snapped up, “You’re getting lazy with your footwork. You should train with the Kingslayer, he has the best footwork I’ve ever seen; as good as the water dancers in Braavos. But don’t tell him I said so.”

As mysteriously as she had appeared, she was gone, leaving Addam to wonder where they stood. Were they betrothed now? Or had she just been testing the waters, so to speak?

Because apparently people big and small could sneak up on him today, the Hound appeared beside him, startling Addam so much he actually jumped back a step. With an annoyed huff he rolled his eyes at the large man, “I thought felines were the quiet, stealthy ones, not canines…”

Sandor nodded at him accusingly, “What did she talk to you about?”

Addam put his hands on his hips, “Why do I get the feeling you already know?”

The man was good enough not to deny it, “Right… best you know that if you hurt the girl, I’m going to cut you open from balls to throat. Or perhaps hold you down so the wolf bitch can do it herself.”

Addam sighed, “I thought it was the _elder_ she-wolf you were protective of, not the younger…” it was a prod he hoped he wouldn’t pay for. Addam feared few men in single combat. Sandor Clegane was one of them.

Instead the large man flicked a hand, “Fuck off with that. That little wolf bitch is like a daughter to me. An annoying shit of a daughter that the Gods cursed me with as a punishment for my countless sins, but a daughter, nonetheless… Just don’t tell her I said so.”

With that the large man stalked off, leaving Addam to laugh to himself, though he wasn’t entirely certain anything he just heard was a jest.


	130. Might have been

**Tyrion**

Tyrion had done plenty of foolish things in his life, but he was, in fact, not a _fool._ When he heard that Sansa had taken in a Flea Bottom orphan then entrusted her to Jaime’s care, Tyrion wanted to bow before her in appreciation for her clever scheme, which he doubted anyone else realized was a scheme.

Jaime had been drifting aimlessly since losing Brienne. Perhaps Cersei’s imprisonment was also weighing on him, though he’d never admitted so to Tyrion.

Jaime had never seemed particularly good with children, but Tyrion was realizing now that it was only because he’d been prohibited from having relationships with his three children. Cersei didn’t even abide him acting avuncular. With little Anya, after some initial awkwardness, Jaime allowed himself to be fun, silly, and warm. These were natural characteristics of Jaime’s, of course, but there were few who ever knew it. Tyrion was one of them. Sansa and her wolf pack made up the rest. Even Jaime’s close friend Addam probably never saw the silly side of Jaime, only the kindness and humor that belied the Kingslayer’s reputation.

Surprisingly, their father hadn’t objected to Jaime _temporarily_ fostering the girl. Tywin Lannister was a man focused on the objective, not the means. His lifelong objective had been for Jaime to someday take his place as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. That, of course, included a duty to take a wife and make heirs. Until Sansa birthed two sons (or two _children,_ if Sansa’s desires won out), Jaime was still Tywin’s heir. Whether Jaime would ever take that mantle depended on Jaime embracing the idea of having a wife and children. With Brienne gone, the cause was greatly wounded, but not dead. Perhaps loving Brienne taught Jaime a skill he would use again in the future.

While Tywin and Tyrion hoped for the same thing in regards Jaime’s future, it was for very different reasons. Tywin hoped Jaime would love a woman – ideally a _lady_ – enough to settle down into lordship and fatherhood. Tyrion hoped Jaime would love a woman – _any_ woman – because he deserved such happiness. His sick relationship with Cersei may have felt like love to Jaime, but Tyrion had the advantage of third-party perspective. Jaime served a _purpose_ for Cersei. He was a guarantee on her happiness – that even in a loveless and respectless marriage she would have a man who would please her and worship her. Robert made her a queen; Jaime made her a woman.

Brienne taught Jaime that love doesn’t have to come at a price. Being with Cersei meant giving up his birthright and committing his service to unworthy kings. By contrast, Jaime sacrificed nothing to be with Brienne, and gained everything. Tyrion sincerely hoped his handsome, generous, _honorable_ brother would find that again. And if he wouldn’t ever open his heart to a lover again, perhaps he would open it to a child. If not Anya, then one of the thousands of war orphans that could be found in every corner of the continent. Or perhaps even a bastard born of a tryst, though Jaime didn’t seem to be built for casual encounters.

What started as ruminating on his brother’s personal life quickly led to reflecting on Tyrion’s _own_ life. Alysane Mormont had snuck up like a shadow cat and stolen his heart. She never hid her fondness for the littlest lion, and never gave him reason to doubt its sincerity. The women of Bear Island didn’t play politics. They had as much interest in southern kingdoms as Tyrion had in watered-down wine. Alysane was attracted to him because, despite his stunted height, he was willing to fight and protect his loved ones when it was required. If Tyrion was all that stood between Sansa and a horde of Unsullied soldiers, they would both die, but not before Tyrion brought some down with them. He would not abandon his queen, or anyone else who had his loyalty. Alysane was not attracted to him in spite of his scarred face and half-missing nose – she was attracted to him _because_ of those characteristics. Like the Wildling women admired Sandor Clegane for his scars – the evidence of his being a fighter and a survivor – Alysane admired the same in Tyrion.

What was perhaps most surprising was that Tyrion returned the attraction. Coin had bought him some of the most beautiful women in the world. Narrow waists, firm breasts, long legs. Alysane was short – not much taller than Arya. She was thick with muscle and healthy fat. Yet all Tyrion saw were the ample curves of a woman paired with the sturdiness of a man.

Even if her figure left something to be desired, her words certainly did not. She was honest and curt. It was only when he heard her call him “my lion” for the first time that he realized how disingenuous it had been when his past lover, Shae, had said the same. Tyrion had thought he loved Shae at the time, though now suspected he loved her because she had played him so expertly. He didn’t fault her for it – she was playing the hand she was dealt in her hard life. But when Alysane said “my lion” he heard nothing but genuine respect and attraction – she truly saw that, while he’d never be a knight of Jaime’s caliber or a battle commander of his father’s caliber, he was indeed a capable man. His recollection of Shae saying the same two words was now tainted with placation. She was boosting up a man she viewed as the least formidable Lannister. Had she appreciated his protection? Probably. His affection? Maybe. His coin? Definitely. But she never saw him for anything but what he could be _for her._

“Teeon,” Anya snapped him from his musings. Behind her on the floor, Jaime was smirking knowingly. It was after the evening meal, and Tyrion had joined Jaime in his chambers where he was occupying Anya until a nurse would bring her to her own room.

“Yes, my dear?” Tyrion finally answered.

“Where you mama?”

Tyrion furrowed his brow and looked at Jaime. Jaime cleared his throat, “Anya, Tyrion is my brother, meaning we have the same father and mother. So, like me, his mother is dead. His father is King Tywin. Remember?”

Anya looked confused, “Kwee Sa-Sa not you mama?”

Her inadvertent rhyming and overall adorableness made both lions chuckle, which seemed to please Anya even as it confused her. Tyrion finally spoke, “She is our _goodmother_ , because she married our father, but she is not our birth mother.”

“She teach you?”

The brothers laughed again as Anya tried to make sense of the complex world of _adults_ with only a child’s frame of reference.

“Yes, she has taught us each a lot,” Jaime admitted, “She taught me how to be honorable. She taught me that it’s okay to be sad sometimes. And that it’s okay to be happy, too.”

Tyrion nodded, “And she taught me that people are not always as they appear. Do you know when I first met Queen Sansa she was just a young girl?”

“Like me?”

“A bit older than you. She was sweet like you, and pretty like you, but she was a frightened girl. And now she is a queen – and the strongest person I know.”

“I want to be strong,” Anya offered casually. It made Tyrion’s heart melt to hear her say she wanted to be _strong_ , not that she wanted to be a queen. Sansa’s strength was her defining characteristic, even more so than the title she wore gracefully, even if begrudgingly.

“You shall be strong, little one,” Jaime offered, “You’re already sweet and pretty, like Queen Sansa. When you grow up to be strong, you’ll be just like her.”

Anya nodded and went back to her dolls. Her attention span for conversation had been exhausted. Tyrion returned to his musings, wondering if some day he and Alysane might have a daughter of their own. One that would ask innocent questions and wonder about the world. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat upon realizing that he had never thought to want a child before, yet suddenly it seemed like the most important thing he might accomplish in his life.

Jaime groaned as he raised himself from the floor and joined Tyrion at the small table. Anya was blissfully oblivious as she was making her dolls have a conversation of some sort.

“Where do you think it went wrong, with Cersei?” Jaime asked quietly.

Tyrion didn’t need him to elaborate. He knew Jaime was looking at this sweet, blond-haired girl and imagining the series of circumstances that would have to occur for her to one day be a cold and remorseless woman.

“I don’t know. Perhaps losing a… losing Joanna… that must affect girls differently than boys. Perhaps if our… head lion was a more loving man…” Tyrion spoke in such a way as to not clue Anya into the fact that they were talking about mothers and fathers. So far, she hadn’t seemed overly upset about losing her parents, but Tyrion wasn’t sure she understood their deaths entirely – particularly the permanency of the situation.

Jaime didn’t seem satisfied with that answer, “Lots of people have such losses. Most don’t turn out… like she did.”

Tyrion took a deep breath, “Perhaps it’s not just Targaryens that have madness in their blood. Look at Joffrey. Perhaps it was just meant to be... Maybe it’s a sum of what’s in our blood and what we live through that makes us what we are.”

Jaime nodded, “I wonder sometimes… about Joffrey… if I had been… if things were different. If she let me…”

Tyrion interrupted his brother’s attempted communication. It wasn’t necessary. Cersei may have been his twin, but Tyrion liked to think he knew Jaime’s mind better than anyone. “We’ll never know, Jaime. And if you’re right, it isn’t on you. She is the one who didn’t allow that. Perhaps you could have helped, but your distance certainly didn’t hurt. You weren’t there to see him at his worst, Jaime. You weren’t there when he,” Tyrion lowered his voice to a whisper, “ordered his betrothed to be stripped and beaten with a sword in front of the entire court. You weren’t there to see the _lovers_ brought out of his chambers. Or rather, carried out. That level of madness isn’t the result of a boy being denied an uncle’s affection, or even a father’s.”

Jaime shook his head and spoke in the same whispered tone, “When we were brought before Cersei as _captives_ … the things she wanted to do... Remember what the mad king did to a pair of wolves?”

Tyrion winced and nodded.

“That was to be our fate, for one of us at least, if she had her way. Either her father, her brother, or the man who served her and her son loyally for decades. No matter the betrayal, would you wish that upon _anyone?”_ Jaime’s cheeks were reddening. If Anya weren’t present, Tyrion was certain he’d be pacing, yanking at his hair, and speaking at a much louder volume.

It was a question that didn’t need to be answered, but Tyrion did so anyway, hoping to make a point, “No, I would never. And neither would you. Neither would our lady, who has more reason than most to be hateful and cruel. And that, my dear brother, is the difference between her and us. There is no blame on you Jaime, nor should there be. I don’t even blame our father. I don’t blame Robert. Maybe… maybe I don’t even blame _her.”_ Tyrion was surprised at the words, and even more surprised that he meant them. It was easy to feel hateful toward his sister when she sat on a throne. Now that she was nothing more than a lowly prisoner, hating her seemed to be over-kill.

Jaime snorted, “Sansa said I’d get no peace from seeing her again. She said whether I found her to be a monster or not, I’d get no answers.” He dropped his head back against the top of the chair, “Gods, was she right. And what you just said? That you don’t even blame her? Sansa said it’s easier to forgive a monster because they don’t know they’re a monster. You don’t hate a rabid dog, you just… put it down.”

Tyrion just stared at his older brother, noticing the lines around his mouth and eyes. He was approaching his fortieth nameday, and what did he have to show for it? One lover dead, one lover forever imprisoned in the Black Cells. A damaged reputation he had only started to repair thanks to the acceptance of a northern lady turned prisoner turned queen. A missing sword hand. Of course, Tyrion saw much more than all that in his brother but doubted Jaime saw the same.

“And do you?” the younger brother asked after far too much time had passed.

“Do I what?” Jaime crinkled his brow.

“Forgive her?”

Jaime shook his head, “I don’t know. It’s… _forgiveness_ is such a black and white concept, isn’t it? I don’t forgive her for the pain she has caused so many of us. I’ll never forgive her for leading to…” Jaime swallowed, “to Brienne’s death. For bringing war to our lands. For having Jon captured and tortured. For what she would have done to us. For what she would have done to the _city._ But…”

“But?”

“But I still,” Jaime rubbed a hand down his face and looked to the ceiling, perhaps willing gravity to hold back tears, “but I still remember when she was,” he lazily flicked a finger toward Anya, who had moved on from her dolls to a set of wooden animals that she was arranging as a child might imagine such creatures to exist in the wild.

Tyrion nodded. He understood. Not because he had ever seen that side of Cersei – it probably died the same day he was born – but because he knew if Jaime saw it, that it must have been there. Perhaps it had only even existed _for_ Jaime, but it had still existed.

Minutes passed as both brothers composed themselves and shed away their worries in lieu of joy, for watching Anya play was something that would bring joy to even the hardest man, Tyrion imagined. Perhaps he’d test this theory by bringing her before his father someday. If nothing else, it would make for an amusing experience.

His earlier realizations coalesced once again in his mind, and Tyrion smiled. He wasn’t sure he could sire children, but he knew he wanted them. At least one. At least one person who would be his to teach, to mold. A daughter or son that he and Alysane could raise to be clever, strong, and kind. A child that might someday serve Sansa’s son or daughter on the throne. Tyrion’s son or daughter serving his half brother or sister. Though Sansa’s future offspring would always feel like a nibling to Tyrion, he mused.

Tyrion glanced at Jaime just long enough to get his attention before nodding in Anya’s direction, “I want one.”

Jaime’s eyes widened many seconds before a smile formed on his comely face, “Then have one.”

Tyrion smiled back, “I’m not sure I can, but I look forward to trying.”

Jaime slapped Tyrion’s thigh, “You don’t fool me, brother. I know you’ve been _trying_ for some time now.”

“What about you, brother? Do you see a cub in your future?”

It was the wrong thing to say, or perhaps too soon to say it, as Jaime’s lips straightened and only fading creases on each side of his mouth proved he’d just been smiling.

“I did,” Jaime admitted after some time, “At least, I had been thinking it could be a possibility after the war… the fucking war,” he mumbled under his breath, “why… why did I let her fight?”

Tyrion snorted, “ _Let her?_ You didn’t _own_ her, Jaime. You didn’t make her feel like she had to put on a dress and become a kept woman. _That_ is what she loved about you, among other things. I know you were robbed of perhaps decades of happiness but think of it from her perspective: All _she_ ever wanted was to be a respected knight. To fight alongside men as their equal, and in many ways their better. She wanted to fight for a worthy master. She got to do all of that. And she got to… to die with a sword in her hand, defending her people, her queen, and her lover. What knight doesn’t dream of such a death? A death to be remembered in history tomes, to be spoken of for generations. _The great lady knight of Winterfell – protector of the Queen in the North!_ Sansa is alive today because of her – _and_ you! _You_ are alive today because of her. You want to mourn the woman you lost? Fine; it’s more than understandable and very much deserved. But do _not_ insult her memory by implying that she shouldn’t have been fighting that day. She had as much right to fight for the North as anybody.”

Tyrion was winded after his diatribe and didn’t realize he had gradually gone from a whisper to near-shouting until he noticed Anya staring at him curiously.

“Who, Teeon?”

Tyrion forced a smile, “The greatest knight who ever lived, and one of the greatest ladies, too.”

“What her name?”

“Ser Brienne of Tarth,” Tyrion answered, “she was my friend, as she was Jaime’s. Perhaps – someday – he’ll tell you about her… but for right now,” Tyrion crossed the room casually then swooped down to tickle her sides, eliciting unrestrained giggles.

“Stop! Stop!” she squealed as her little hands tried to fend him off.

“I can’t stop! The tickle monster has possessed me! You need a brave knight to save you!”

“Jaime!!” she shrieked.

A glance in his brother’s direction revealed a face strained by the effort to suppress a smile. As Jaime rose, he shook his head in a weak admonishment of Tyrion’s plot, “At your service, my lady.”

**Sansa**

The two women sat in silence in Sansa’s solar. It was often that way when she and Shireen met. They spoke about the issues of the realm, then they lapsed into more personal topics. Inevitably, both would fall silent as they contemplated their respective concerns. Sansa often wondered what ghosts haunted the young Wardeness. It wasn’t hard to imagine she thought about her late mother and father. Perhaps she pondered how the realm would be different if her father had successfully claimed the Iron Throne. A not small part of Sansa wondered the same. If Stannis’ men had been triumphant in the Battle of the Blackwater, would he have released Sansa to her family in exchange for peace? Stannis and Robb were hardly the greatest of enemies at the time. Perhaps Stannis would have even given Robb a position of importance – a seat on the small council, or even as his Hand? Then Sansa and her mother would rule the North and help raise the child Robb never met – the babe that died in its mother’s womb during the Red Wedding.

Then again, perhaps Stannis’ men would have sacked the castle and killed everyone associated with Joffrey. Or perhaps Stannis would have recognized Sansa’s value and married her to one of his vassal lords to stake his own claim on the North.

Or perhaps the Lannisters and Tyrells would regroup months later and take back the throne. Maybe they would give the throne to Tyrion and Margaery Tyrell. Or maybe Tywin would claim it for himself and take Margaery as his bride.

_Or me._

She chuckled aloud, pulling Shireen’s attention from whatever subject had been occupying her mind.

Sansa like to think Stannis would be fair and merciful. He could ally himself with Robb by giving Sansa back, then the North would back him if the Lannisters and their allies ever tried to usurp him. Sansa would live in Winterfell, never having known the cruelties of Petyr or Ramsay. Perhaps Sandor would make his way north with Arya in tow…

_Perhaps Robb would marry me off to secure another alliance. One with Dorne, perhaps._

_Or Roose Bolton._

_Or Robert Arryn._

_Or some Frey._

_Or Tywin Lannister._

Shireen smiled, “What amuses you, your grace?”

Sansa sighed, “I was pondering how things would be different if your father had claimed the throne.”

Shireen nodded, her smile turning sad.

“Perhaps I’d be right where I am today, only having taken a much different journey.”

“Perhaps,” Shireen agreed.

“Or perhaps things would be much different. Perhaps Daenerys’ attack would have been deterred by a unified Westeros. The Stormlands and North might be in much better shape, not to mention Dorne and the Reach.”

It saddened Sansa to realize that such would probably _not_ have been the case. Too many would not wish to see Stannis on the throne, each having their own reasons.

Of all the possible scenarios, only one ever gave her hope – not for the realm, but for herself: if she had accepted Sandor’s offer and fled with him that fateful night. Not to the Twins where her family was headed. Not to the Vale where her crazed aunt lived. Not to the North, held by the Boltons. Could they have made it to Essos? Lived as Samuel Cain and Sasha Rivers, married and had children?

In this fantasy, Jon would eventually leave the Night’s Watch to take back Winterfell, knowing a united North was needed against the threat of the Others. He would ally with Daenerys, perhaps marry her. She’d lend her dragons and even her armies for the sake of the man she loved. Then she, the North, and Dorne would combine to unseat Cersei. Perhaps Arya was right so very many moons ago when she said Sansa’s _betrayal_ is what drove Daenerys mad. Perhaps she’d have made a good ruler, with the honorable Jon Stark by her side. They could have earned the loyalty of the Vale, if for no other reason than that Petyr Baelish was smart enough to see the way the wind blew. Shireen would also likely side with Daenerys and Jon over Cersei, and the Tyrells had been ever loyal to the Targaryens in the past. Cersei would be left with only her father and a few thousand Riverlanders by her side, maybe Euron Greyjoy too. No battles would need to be fought. If Daenerys could set aside her thirst for revenge, she might leave the Westerlands in peace so long as Tywin bent the knee. The realm could have been united under the same woman who ended up destroying a good portion of it. It would not be without hardships, but food scarcity wouldn’t be one of them.

And no one would care about the missing Stark heir and the Lannister Hound. Most, unfairly, would assume the Hound raped and discarded her, but he’d never cared about his reputation, and wouldn’t if it meant having Sansa by his side. Maybe they’d be united with Arya in Essos and live together as a happy family while Westeros found its peace.

Sansa sighed, realizing her own naivety would have prevented any of that from happening. Though she cared for the Hound at the time, it was only _after_ he left that she realized her feelings for him weren’t simply that of a child desperate for any protector. If she had left with him, they would have gone to the Twins, or the Vale. She’d have been married to a Frey, likely after they killed her brother and mother. Or she’d be under Littlefinger’s thumb. If only she could go back in time, knowing what she knew now.

Shireen took a deep breath, the type that precedes words one is hesitant to divulge, “It is tempting to wonder about might-have-beens, my lady, but I sincerely believe where we are right now is exactly where we were meant to be. No matter the loss and pain it took to get here.”

Sansa offered a well-practiced smile, appreciating Shireen’s words even if she couldn’t bring herself to believe them.

**Sandor**

Sandor knocked on Sansa’s door, ready to escort her to the evening meal. The brief walk was a time of day they spent together, and thus Sandor always looked forward to it.

During the meal itself Sandor was nothing but her guard, but frankly it suited him. He wasn’t meant to sit at a high table, with all eyes on him, as he chatted with some courtier or some honored member of the household.

 _That_ was a tradition Sansa brought from Winterfell, to Tywin’s apparent annoyance. The Great Lion wasn’t one to _chit chat_ with some man-at-arms or – Gods forbid – a stable master. But for whatever reason, he agreed to honor Sansa’s ways in this regard. Sandor would have been on Tywin’s side, had anyone asked him, but he could see the merit of fostering close relationships with all of one’s retainers.

Sandor was surprised when, after being permitted entry, he found Sansa in a dressing gown, sitting on her bed, strumming her mandolin. He only now realized he hadn’t seen the instrument in her hands since they arrived at the capital, nor had he heard her singing. He had missed it without realizing it was missing, he now knew.

“Not supping in the great hall?”

She shook her head, “Will you send my regrets?”

Sandor stepped out long enough to find Thoros and task him with delivering the news to the Great Lion, wherever the man may be.

“New song?” he asked upon returning.

Sansa nodded, “A somber one, you won’t approve.”

Sandor huffed, “I like all your songs, you know that.”

Sansa sighed, “I’m beginning to even bore myself with my self-pity. What’s worse, I can’t even tell if it’s self-pity or justifiable sympathy for all of my _subjects._ Am I seeing pain where there is only joy? Am I seeing hunger where this actually bounty?”

Sandor shook his head, “I think you’re seeing things right, but I think you’re placing blame in the wrong place. The smallfolk know who put them in this position, Sansa – and it wasn’t you. Moreover, they spend their days toiling, with little time to think about where blame should be placed. Lazing around, worrying about things beyond their control is a luxury of the noble class.”

Sansa swatted his arm, “You think I’m lazing around?”

He scanned over her appearance, “At the moment?”

She chuckled and swatted him again. A familiar swell of pride built in his chest, as it did whenever he successfully vanquished one of her dreary moods.

“Besides,” he added, “everyone has their own problems, and they’re more likely to blame their vassal lord or lady than their king and queen. And the lords and ladies put blame upon their Warden before their king and queen. As you recently educated me, my pretty little Septa, the kingdoms each exist – each thrive or wither – with little influence from the Crown, so long as the Crown isn’t bringing wars to their doorstep.”

Sansa looked up at him queerly, as if his words made no sense.

Sandor shrugged, “At least, I thought that’s what you meant.”

She shook her head, “You’re right…”

Sandor feigned arrogance, “I usually am.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t directed at him. Her eyes were scanning back and forth across the bearskin rug at her feet, a perfect reflection of her racing mind.

He left her to her thoughts for several minutes before clearing his throat, “Want to play me this song?”

She lifted her eyes to meet his, “Sure, but keep in mind I wrote this when I was feeling rather despondent, and now, thanks to you, my love, I am feeling rather hopeful.”

She went through the familiar ritual, strumming to find her key while humming the melody. Sandor watched on as warmth filled every blood vessel in his large body.

> _I am not the only traveler  
>  Who has not repaid her debt  
> I've been searching for a trail to follow  
> Take me back to the night you left_
> 
> _And then I can tell myself  
>  What the hell I'm supposed to do  
> And then I can tell myself  
> Just to ride along with you_
> 
> _I had none and then most of you  
>  All and now some of you  
> Take me back to the night you left  
> I don't know if I’ll ever win  
> Haunted by what could have been  
> Oh, take me back to the night you left_
> 
> _When the night was full of terrors  
>  And your eyes were full of tears  
> When you had not touched me yet  
> Oh, take me back to the night you left_
> 
> _I had none and then most of you  
>  All and now some of you   
> Take me back to the night you left  
> I don't know if I’ll ever win  
> Haunted by what could have been  
> Oh, take me back to the night you left_

Sandor swallowed the painful lump in his throat. He could have written the song himself, so well did her words reflect his own internal struggles and debates.

Sansa smiled sadly, “I know we both agreed we wouldn’t have gotten far. And that if we had made it some place where we _thought_ I had friends or family, it would not have proved to be so… but what if we didn’t go north at all? What if we went _east_? What if we could be sitting on our porch right now, with a lazy cat and energetic children? What if we just left this mess for others to sort out? What if…” her eyes fell down to her lap.

Sandor couldn’t have stopped himself from wrapping her in his arms even if the entire court had been spying on their intimate moment. He pulled her as close as two bodies can physically be, “It wasn’t the right time, Sansa. I wasn’t… I was angry and drunk, and you were naïve. We’d never had made those choices, and we’d never have slipped from their reach.”

Sansa nodded against his neck, “I know, Sandor. But it’s nice to think about. Let me have my fantasy – the way I could have chosen differently and had you – had it be just us.”

Sandor stroked her back lightly, “You have me. And maybe it’s not _just_ us… but to me it is, Sansa. None of them matter to me. I care about the damned lion brothers. I care about the drunk priest and the she-bear and the mad ginger. I care about your sullen brother and your annoying little sister – more than I should, in the latter’s case. But you’re _everything_ , do you hear me? And change your bloody lyrics, girl, because believe me – you’ve got all of me now. Even if I only have most of you.”

She pushed away to stare at him in bewilderment, “Don’t you dare say that. You have _all_ of me. He… he has my respect and my gratitude. I won’t lie and say otherwise. But that is it, Sandor. I get up in the morning because of _you._ I couldn’t breathe without you... I’ve survived so much loss, and I’ve endured it all. Why, I do not know. But I could not endure losing you.”

Sandor squeezed her close again, “The Stranger is all that could possibly take me from you, and if that bugger dares to try before I’m good and old he might find he’s met his match.”

Sansa chuckled, “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Sandor smiled back at her, feeling like the weight of a dragon had been lifted from his shoulders, “So you said you wrote that song when you felt hopeless, but now you feel better. What’s going on in that clever little brain of yours?”

She blushed at his question, “I’m not ready to tell you. I’m not ready to even hope it might happen, but… when I’m ready to think about it and act on it, you’ll be the first to know.”

Sandor rolled his eyes, “Well, seems I can choose to be mad that you’re keeping a secret, or…”

“Or?” she arched a brow.

“Or take advantage of the fact that you’re in good spirits,” he bit her neck playfully, eliciting a surprised yelp from her pretty lips.

“I vote for the latter,” she breathed against his lips as he hovered over her.

He pressed his already stiffening manhood against her hip, “I bet you do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Credit: The Night We Met by Lord Huron (as always, with minor amendments to fit my story)


	131. Victory and Sorrow

**Sansa**

The inevitable renovations on Maegor’s Holdfast were soon to commence, funded by Tywin personally. Sansa could only object for so long. Her vision for the future didn’t include such opulent living quarters, but she wasn’t ready to bring up her idea to Tywin. She needed to put considerable planning into what she would propose; she could not approach him with a half-formed idea.

So she spoke to the builders about the plans to turn the royal apartments into a set of chambers much like the family quarters of Winterfell. There would be spacious bedchambers with adjoining solars and antechambers for the king and queen. There would be many sizeable, single bedchambers for future children or visiting family members. More modest quarters for servants and sworn shields would be at each end of the hall. It was not vastly different from the current layout except that the king and queen’s chambers would be smaller so they could accommodate more total rooms on the floor.

It would be many weeks of construction but already Sansa was being asked about furnishings and décor. Unfortunately, Stark gray and white clashed with the warm reddish stone and tan marble the entire keep was built of. She decided Lannister colors simply looked better, and perhaps it would earn her some of Tywin’s goodwill.

She tried not to linger in the royal apartments, but it was the second time the builders had called her there to ask her input that she had to step into what were once Joffrey’s chambers. During her _captivity_ in King’s Landing, she’d rarely seen his private rooms. More often, she was summoned to court so her abuse and humiliation could be a public affair. Or sometimes he came to her chambers with one or more of his guards, an unnecessary reminder that she had no sanctuary in _his_ city.

She looked around the bedchamber, surprised that it looked much like any other. It almost made Joffrey seem human to know that he needed a bed to sleep in and a chamber pot to relieve himself in, just like any other person.

_Even kings shit._

She chuckled to herself but regained her composure when the head builder passed her a queer look. The man was saying something about constructing the new rooms around the various hearths, so every lord, lady, and guest chamber would have one, while the smaller servant and guard quarters could make do with a brazier.

It was as she pretended to pay attention to her that something caught her eye. There, hanging on the wall on the far side of the bed, was Joffrey’s beloved crossbow. As far as Sansa knew, he’d never used it to fell a great beast in the wild, only to intimidate his subjects, including Sansa. She knew there was blood on that weapon, had heard Sandor tell of how Joffrey occasionally treated the whores that were brought to him.

Clear as day she remembered pleading for her life with that crossbow aimed at her heart, though now she was embarrassed by her weak past self. She should have walked right up the stairs to the throne, not stopping until her chest pressed against the arrow tip. She should have dared him to pull the trigger and kill the _key to the North._ And when he didn’t, she should have laughed until the entire court laughed with her at the sight of the craven king, making threats he was too afraid to deliver.

Then again, Joffrey was mad enough that he might have pulled the trigger, consequences be damned.

Sansa pulled the weapon down from its hooks and felt the weight of it in her hands. She felt no more powerful by holding it, though Joffrey clearly had.

Sansa would likely never know what possessed her to claim the weapon for her own. It was her right to anything in the royal apartments, though propriety would dictate she see if a relation of Joffrey – Tywin, Tyrion, or Jaime – would want the thing. But they wouldn’t, she knew. Or at least, not enough to take it if they knew she wanted it. Which she did.

Back in her chambers in the Tower of the Hand, she yanked down a heavy tapestry and hung the crossbow in its place. The weapon was framed by the rectangle of discolored stone where the tapestry had hung, perhaps for decades. It was a depiction of the ocean from the view atop this very tower.

Sansa sat on her bed and stared at the crossbow, letting it remind her of what she had survived. Even more intense was the reminder of Joffrey’s cruelty – of what she would never allow herself to become. Perhaps the arrogant part of her also liked the idea of possessing Joffrey’s beloved crossbow while his body rotted in the crypts. She wanted him to know that _she_ had it now... A Stark of Winterfell. A traitor’s daughter. A traitor’s sister. A stupid girl. A wolf bitch. A fool. A coward.

She survived; he did not. She sat the throne, she put his mother in a dungeon cell, she married his grandfather. And now, she had his crossbow. Perhaps she’d never use it as she’d used Ramsay’s dagger, or perhaps she would.

…

“Your spirits seem lifted, my lady.” Tywin spoke as he rolled out of her bed and pulled on his crimson robe. They often conversed before and after she did her _duty_ , but he usually didn’t linger too long. They spoke enough each day about matters of the realm, and neither was comfortable sharing much of their personal thoughts with the other. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him; Tywin was, as Tyrion and Jaime had told her, fiercely loyal to those who were part of his family.

“I suppose I’m feeling rather uplifted, my lord.”

He hummed and then turned to look at her, “Any particular cause?”

“No,” she lied, “Just a woman’s changing mood, as fickle as the wind.”

He snorted at her jape, “I haven’t found your mood to be volatile at all. Perhaps… might you be with child?”

Sansa felt her smile fall away. It was a question he was within his rights to ask, and yet she’d been hoping it would never come. She hoped at some point – perhaps a year or two into their marriage, he would give up, assume himself no longer virile, and leave her bed entirely. It was a foolish wish, but that didn’t stop her from latching onto it.

“I… I suppose it’s possible.”

He hummed again, “You should meet with the maester. If you are with child, you should be not working as hard as you are.”

Sansa forced a smile and nod, but now Tywin was looking back at her oddly. She immediately felt a flush form on her neck and chest.

“Actually… you haven’t bled since shortly after our wedding, if I’m not mistaken.”

 _Fuck!_ Sansa scolded herself internally. She had meant to feign a moonblood every two fortnights but had completely forgotten. Her cycles were still irregular, coming sometimes several months apart. If Tywin knew this, he’d wonder about her fertility.

When the maester confirmed Sansa was _not_ with child, as she was sure he would, Tywin would wonder. She decided to address the issue head-on, right now, to avoid giving his mind a chance to wander. She’d give him the truth – most of it.

“Actually that isn’t so uncommon for me,” she spoke casually, “I… well I suppose you would find out anyway, but my cycles are not very predictable.”

He stared at her, completely expressionless. She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut, “The maester – actually two maesters – assured me it is nothing to be concerned with. That my body has been under too much trauma and stress, and that when things calm down my cycles will become more regular again. I am perfectly healthy, though, otherwise.”

He took a deep breath, “This doesn’t impact your fertility?”

She shook her head. She felt sick lying to him. _Him!_ One of the conspirators in her mother and brother’s deaths. Damn her soft heart!

“This is not to say I’m not with child, my lord, only that the absence of my moonblood doesn’t necessarily mean that it is so.”

He nodded, but she could see his mind working behind his green eyes.

She stood and pulled on her own robe, if only to give her hands something to do other than tremble. She had turned away from him, and hoped when she turned back toward the door, she’d see him leaving.

Instead she felt his fingers at her elbow, stilling her fidgeting but not turning her. “You’ve had a child before.”

Sansa felt as if ice water had been injected directly into her veins. It was logical that Tywin knew this – most of the North and the Vale knew it, thanks to her admission during Petyr’s trial. But his failure to mention it before now made her believe he never would.

“Yes,” she answered the question that wasn’t really a question.

“Hm… healthy?”

Sansa snorted. Of course that’s what he would want to know. “Perfectly, even though he was a few weeks early.”

She heard him take a breath in and out, “A son.”

She nodded.

The fingers that had been idle began stroking up and down her arm, very carefully, very slowly. It was a soothing gesture, not a lover’s caress.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember the dark place and the peace she had felt there. But it was a feeling impossible to replicate. There was nothing like it in this world. Even the feeling of deep relief after winning a battle, or deep satisfaction after falling apart in Sandor’s arms, couldn’t come close to the complete peace of _emptiness._

“What happened to him?” Tywin asked in a voice she’d never heard him use before. It sounded genuinely contrite. For a man that never apologized for his actions, he seemed to be apologizing for something that was not his fault at all.

“Ramsay happened,” she answered with only a few heartbeats’ delay. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, calling on everyone and no one to infuse the feelings of peace and weightlessness into her mortal being.

She didn’t realize she’d been shaking until she felt Tywin’s arms around her and heard his voice shushing her. He turned her around and held her as she cried into his chest. His embrace felt so much like Jaime’s that she almost giggled at the idea. A father and son who seemed as opposite as night and day gave the same exact hugs. Only where Jaime’s felt brotherly, Tywin’s felt almost fatherly. It was the closest thing to being held by Ned Stark, and the thought would have horrified or disgusted her, if not for the fact that she’d seen more than enough _truly_ horrifying and disgusting things in her life.

Long minutes must have passed because Sansa felt as if she’d suddenly been woken up when Tywin moved to put her into her bed. She felt his warm hands tuck the blankets around her before stroking her hair gently. His footsteps moved toward the door, then down the hallway.

Not a minute later she felt a different set of arms envelop her – ones as familiar as her own body.

“Little bird,” he whispered against her hair.

Even in twilight she realized Tywin had gone to Sandor’s chambers to retrieve him. A wave of guilt passed through her, but her sleepy mind didn’t dwell on it. She only thought, just before she fell asleep, that she may never love Tywin Lannister, but she did love him for _that_.

**Tywin**

The youngest wolf stood before them looking uncharacteristically nervous after requesting an audience with them. Though _request_ was not accurate – she had pushed her way in around the guard announcing her presence, strutting like a Dornishman before coming to a halt and seemingly losing her voice.

Sansa passed him a glance before turning back to her sister, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, dear sister?” her tone was playful bordering on sarcastic.

The girl clasped her hands behind her back, “I thought you should know, I’m thinking about going to the Vale, as its lady, until such a time as you birth an heir. Er, four heirs.”

Tywin would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised by her decision, “You realize, my lady, that running a kingdom is an arduous task?”

“Aye. I would propose keeping Ser Bryan on, as castellan. He can continue running things while I learn.”

“You’ve put thought into this,” Sansa said, half question, half statement.

“I have. Much. I think I can do good there. And I know you both appreciate having someone loyal to you in each of the kingdoms. If your offer still stands, Sansa, I’d like to accept it.”

Sansa nodded, “Allow us to discuss this; we will have an answer for you soon.”

Arya nodded but didn’t leave. Tywin groaned, “Was there something else, my lady? We’re rather busy.”

She rolled her eyes – an annoying habit, “I’d also like you to approve of my betrothal to Ser- _Lord_ Addam.”

This time, surprised was an understatement. If Tywin was inclined to theatrics he would have fallen from his chair. Sansa sat motionless, likely as stunned as he was.

“You’ve discussed this? With Lord Marbrand?” Sansa finally spoke.

“Aye. He’s agreeable. The Twins is close to the Vale. And we’ll both spend time in King’s Landing, I’m sure. He’ll have a castellan, as will I.”

Tywin and Sansa stared at each other for long moments. Sansa slowly turned back to her sister, “You _want_ to marry him?”

The girl blushed a color Tywin only ever saw on Sansa’s complexion, “I wouldn’t ask it if I didn’t. I know what you’re thinking – he’s old. But not as old as _your_ husband,” she darted an annoyed glance at Tywin. “And he has red hair, but I’ll take that over blond.”

Tywin almost appreciated her moxie while Sansa scolded her with a glare, “Arya I’ll not have you insult my husband, _your king.”_

“It wasn’t an insult. He _is_ old, and I _don’t_ like blonds. Reminds me too much of Joffrey, that shit-for-brains cunt.”

Sansa winced at her language but Tywin merely huffed, “And Addam is agreeable?”

Arya shrugged, “I’m pretty sure.”

“Pretty sure?” Tywin snorted, “Sounds like an iron-clad agreement.”

“Look, _your grace_ , I thought I should get your permission before speaking to him further.”

Tywin looked to Sansa, who lifted her shoulders and eyebrows in a confused but affirmative gesture.

“Fine. You have our permission on the betrothal. I am inclined to also grant your request to be installed as Lady of the Vale, but know that you will be removed should you fail to uphold your responsibilities – blood alone is not enough to secure your position forever. Your sister named you her heir; she can easily _un-name_ you. Understood?”

The girl made a mockery of a curtsy, “Yes, your graces.”

“And return after you’ve spoken to Addam. I want to hear this from his mouth.”

“Why would I lie about it? I mean, fine, as you wish.”

She turned and left without being properly dismissed, but Tywin knew better than to expect courtesies from her. He even – _almost_ – respected that about her. Though he would forever scratch his head at the notion that the girl was born of Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully.

Sansa blew a loud breath through her lips, “Well that was unexpected.”

He allowed himself to chuckle, “Any chance it was a jape?”

She raised her brow, “With Arya one never knows, but in this matter? I would highly doubt it.”

Tywin nodded his agreement. They returned to the task the she-wolf had interrupted. They were currently deciding what could be done to aid Dorne. Arianne Martell had sent a request for laborers. Dorne’s numbers, particularly in the east, had been decimated by the Dragon Queen. Rebuilding would take years even with a suitable workforce. Without one, it might take decades.

Before they could make much progress, Tyrion was announced. He entered more humbly than their last visitor but didn’t wait for the offer before pouring himself a goblet of wine.

“I’ve come on something of a personal matter.”

Tywin nearly rolled his eyes as his goodsister would have, “Let me guess, you wish to be installed at the Rock and wed to someone we don’t even know you have relations with?”

Tyrion blinked at his father, making him wonder if his purely sardonic guess had actually been accurate.

“Actually… someone you _know_ I have relations with. And no, I don’t want the Rock, nor would I expect you to give it to me unless I was the last Lannister and you were on your death bed.”

“You wish to marry Alysane?” Sansa asked.

“Yes, goodmother,” Tyrion smiled mischievously at the address.

Sansa turned to face Tywin, “Alright, perhaps this _is_ a jape.”

Tyrion looked between them, clearly confused, “I assure you it is not. You both know of my romantic involvement with Lady Alysane. Father, I would assume the heir to Bear Island is an acceptable consort for your shortest son?”

Tywin groaned, “You have been named an _acceptable consort_ for my lady wife, should I perish before she births our heirs. I would think a woman who wields an axe might take issue with that, if you were hers by law.”

Tyrion looked to Sansa and sighed, “With respect, if that should come to pass, I would think Sansa would prefer to name Jaime as her consort. Even Martyn Lannister, who she’s only recently met, would likely be her choice over me. I’m sure my queen will correct me if I’m wrong.”

Sansa smiled wanly at Tyrion, “You are not wrong. Ser Jaime has already agreed to take the position… if it should be needed.”

Tyrion’s asymmetrical face twisted into a roguish grin, “ _Take the position?_ Is that a euphemism?”

Sansa rolled her eyes while Tywin scoffed. A potential role as consort that may never come to pass wasn’t a valid reason to deny Tyrion’s request. Further, it pleased Tywin to see his youngest son matched with an _actual_ lady – as unladylike as she may be – rather than a whore. The Mormonts were unbreakably loyal to Sansa and would never try to leverage Tyrion’s power as a Lannister against the Crown.

For the second time that day, Tywin looked at Sansa for nonverbal agreement. She gave it with a slight nod.

“Very well; you have our blessing on your betrothal. I assume Lady Mormont knows you’re speaking with us about this?”

Tyrion winced, “Not exactly, though I’m sure she will be agreeable. I can be quite charming, or so I’ve been told.”

This time, Tywin did roll his eyes. He also mumbled, “Buggering hells,” much to his lady wife’s amusement and his son’s surprise. These Northerners he was surrounded by – his own _sons_ included – were chipping away at his manners.

After Tyrion bowed his exit Sansa shook her head in feigned inconvenience, “Looks like we’ll have to factor the cost of _two_ royal weddings into our budgets.”

“Addam wants your sword-wielding sister and Tyrion wants your axe-wielding friend,” Tywin shook his head, “I hope I’m long dead before it’s women who wear breeches and men who wear dresses.”

For the second time that day he’d made his little wife giggle. If it was all he accomplished, the day wouldn’t be a complete waste.

**Cersei**

“You came,” Cersei couldn’t help but gasp when her eyes adjusted to the lantern light and fell on the familiar figure of her twin.

“Don’t ask me why,” he replied curtly.

“Jaime,” she moved to step closer, but the chain only permitted her a four-pace radius, and he stood just beyond it.

He looked around the cell, his lip curling in what she hoped was disapproval.

“It’s horrible, Jaime. She means to keep me down here forever!”

“As she has every right to,” he placed the torch in the sconce and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall opposite her.

“She has the right to have me executed. Never has a king or queen been sentenced to a lifetime imprisonment. It’s barbaric.”

“What you meant to do to her – to _us_ – is barbaric. And as far as I know, no king or queen has been executed, either. Except Aerys II, by my hand, and Joffrey, by his own betrothed’s family not to mention his own master of coin. Neither of those could actually be classified as “executions” though, could they? They were murders. Regicide. And justifiable in both counts.”

“What’s your point?” she sneered, “That your _queen_ is justified in keeping me chained here like an animal in my own filth?”

“I’ve seen much filthier cells. Hells, I’ve _been_ in much filthier cells. The Stark war camp comes to mind. You may have not been aware I was there – busy as you were fraternizing with half the members of your guard, and our cousin, as I recall.”

“Is that what this is about? Your jealousy?”

“No, Cersei. Nothing has ever been about my jealousy. It’s been about your behavior – your actions.”

Cersei knew defiance and denial would not get her far. She would give Jaime some of the _repenting_ he wanted to hear.

“I believe you now that she had no part in Joffrey’s murder. More precisely, I believe _her_ – because she now has all the time in the world to rub it in my face, here, where no one would hear her confessions.”

“That’s it? _Joffrey?_ I could look past your accusing her, at least initially, given she fled immediately after his death. But I’m referring to everything _else_ , Cersei. All the fighting. The bounty. That _farce_ of a trial. Sending the Ironborn to raid Castle Black – a refugee camp, for Gods’ sakes!”

“It was _war,_ Jaime, there is no such thing as _unfair_ in war.”

“A needless war that _you_ started. And fine, let’s _pretend_ for a moment that your warmongering was justified. What about _after_? When we were brought before you as prisoners of said war – a war you believed you had won – you were going to have one of us burnt alive while Sansa strangled herself trying to stop it!” he was seething mad, shouting at her. She’d never seen him so wound up. The girl’s claws were in him deep. Too deep.

Cersei waited until his pacing stopped before she spoke, “You’re right, Jaime. I was mad with my thirst for revenge – a misguided notion, at that. I’ve… I realize that now.”

His eyes lifted to hers, wide with shock. His beautiful green eyes, so innocent, so guileless. He was so naïve, so easily manipulated. She had always known it and never cared because it had always worked in her favor. She gave him a purpose, and he loved her for that. But now another had taken advantage of his innocence; his vulnerability when it came to a _cause_. There was a time she was his one and only cause, but how could she compete with a woman who offered him an entire kingdom as a cause?

She knew her words affected him, so she offered even more, “Months in this cell, there is little to do but reflect. I realize that I failed Joffrey by not guiding him to become a king the people would respect. Not having their respect cost him his life. I cannot even fault Olenna and Littlefinger for that, even though I continue to hate them for it. And Tommen…”

Cersei swallowed a lump. Lies came easily to her. Lies were her greatest weapon, but this lie hurt to utter, “I shouldn’t have interfered. The truth is the Tyrells were becoming too powerful and I wasn’t ready to relinquish control, nor did I think Tommen was ready to rule when Margaery could manipulate him so easily. I know it will mean little to you, but I honestly didn’t think he would survive long after Margaery gave birth to a son. They wanted the Crown for themselves, free from Lannister influence. For all I know the child wasn’t even Tommen’s… wouldn’t it be _poetic_ for her to lay with one of her handsome brothers just to keep Lannister blood from flowing into the next generation?” Cersei shook her head, “But I see now my actions were too extreme. Perhaps I should have left the future of the Crown and my son’s life in the Gods’ hands.”

Jaime was staring at her, awestruck. She snorted, “What’s the matter, brother? Surprised to learn there is a method to my madness? I’m not Gregor Clegane; I didn’t kill for sport. You may not agree with my reasons – I look back and am not sure _I_ even agree with them – but I did _have_ my reasons.”

She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She hung her head in defeat when all she felt was triumph. Perhaps there was room in Jaime’s heart to serve two women. And that’s what she needed – for him to serve _her_ while he thought he was serving his queen.

Jaime cleared his throat, “Is there anything you need, Cersei? Anything that can make you more… comfortable?”

She smiled sadly, “Your queen has been generous, under the circumstances. She is Ned Stark’s daughter, after all. I suppose I deserve her wrath for that if nothing else. Joffrey was a child, a willful child new to his crown. I did petition for Stark to be sent to the Wall, but I didn’t stop Joffrey from executing him, right in front of the poor little dove. I could have stopped him. At least, I like to think Joffrey would still have listened to me then. Or maybe I’d already failed him.”

“Sansa doesn’t blame you for that, Cersei. She knows how Joffrey was… better than anyone.”

“Then she has a forgiving heart. She hasn’t yet been hardened. Given her experiences, that is quite a feat. I hope it stays that way, for your sake, brother. And for father’s sake. I may hate you both, but I still… I still love you, too.” She lifted her eyes to see his reaction. He looked downright pained by her words. She could see the conflict playing behind his eyes and resisted the urge to smile. When she couldn’t resist any longer, she passed it off as congenial rather than victorious, “It’s alright, Jaime. I don’t blame you. I deserve my fate. That doesn’t mean I don’t pray for mercy, but I … I deserve this.”

She considered apologizing for her indirect role in the death of his _lover_. Bile rose in her throat even thinking of her handsome twin laying with that beast. But she thought better not to remind him, in this moment. It was a card she could play in the future, and she didn’t want to press her luck.

Jaime shook his head, seemingly clearing his mind of whatever he had been thinking, and moved to grab the torch.

“You asked if there is anything I need.”

He turned to her and nodded.

“I know I have no right to ask, Jaime, but it would give me something to look forward to, to know that I will see you again.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded before disappearing behind the door.

In her early weeks, the darkness had seemed like her enemy and tormentor. But now, while she still craved the sunlight, and nearly cried in relief when Sansa had her escorted to a sunny room near the entrance of the Black Cells, she had come to find solace in the darkness. In the darkness she could live within her mind, always planning, always scheming. She had known for weeks now what she’d say if and when Jaime came to visit her. She knew what to say to the wolf bitch, too, only the girl’s random questions were something she had to carefully navigate around. She knew what she’d say to the Imp, who she knew was very much alive, if he ever came to see her. She knew what she’d say to her father. She even chose her words carefully with the guards who attended her, knowing she had to appear adequately _penitent_ lest Jaime or Sansa question them.

This was a long game, but one she would win. She was the last true lion – the others had been turned to sheep – she owed it to her House to free herself of this place so the legacy of the once-great Tywin Lannister would live on instead of being corrupted by the blood of the wolf with its self-righteousness and false honor.

She leaned back against the wall and smiled.


	132. Cause

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shortish chapter and I'm starting it off with the same scene that ended Chapter 131, but from a different POV. I've only done this once before - when Sansa and Sandor each reflected on Beric's death.

**Jaime**

She held out a hand to block the harsh light of his lantern. Eventually she dropped her hand, squinted her eyes, and gasped, “You came!” His twin looked almost giddy in that moment, an odd juxtaposition to her surroundings.

“Don’t ask me why,” Jaime replied curtly.

“Jaime,” she moved to step closer, but the chain only permitted her a four-pace radius. The sound of the metal links snapping taut was a sickeningly familiar one – one that would forever make bile rise in his throat.

The only people who truly appreciated their freedom were the ones who’d spent some time in chains. Trapped. Helpless. Completely at the mercy of another. Jaime was one of those people. Sansa, too. Ned Stark, before his death. And now Cersei.

Countless men and more than a few women had been sent to these cells during Jaime’s tenure in the Kingsguard. Not once had Jaime thought to wonder if the condemned was innocent, or if the punishment did not fit the crime. Or if the punishment was too inhumane for even the worst fiends.

He looked around. Cersei’s conditions were certainly not the worst he’d seen. She wasn’t made to sit in her own filth. She wasn’t being slowly starved. She wasn’t naked and shivering. But it was still a prison.

Cersei’s voice became a tremble, “It’s horrible, Jaime. She means to keep me down here forever!”

“As she has every right to,” he placed the torch in the sconce and crossed his arms, leaning against the wall opposite her. Pitying Cersei, or any prisoner, was one thing. But pretending she hadn’t sealed her own fate with her heinous deeds was quite another.

Cersei raised her chin, “She has the right to have me executed. Never has a king or queen been sentenced to a lifetime imprisonment. It’s barbaric.”

Jaime snorted. _Pot, meet kettle._ “What you meant to do to her – to _us_ – was barbaric. And as far as I know, no king or queen has been _executed_ , either. Except Aerys II, by my hand, and Joffrey, by his own betrothed’s family not to mention his own Master of Coin. Neither of those could actually be classified as “executions” though, could they? They were _murders_. Regicide. And justifiable in both counts.” He wouldn’t bother adding Robert to the list. She was intimately familiar with his manner of death.

“What’s your point?” she sneered, “That your _queen_ is justified in keeping me chained here like an animal in my own filth?”

“I’ve seen much filthier cells. Hells, I’ve _been_ in much filthier cells. The Stark war camp comes to mind. You may have not been aware I was there – busy as you were fraternizing with half the members of your guard, and our cousin, as I recall.” As he spoke the words, the pity he momentarily harbored morphed into anger. She did nothing to help him while he was a prisoner, unless she somehow thought that by fucking enough men, Jaime would magically be released. If that was the case, her efforts were valiant.

“Is that what this is about? Your jealousy?” she asked in an oddly calm voice.

“No, Cersei. Nothing has ever been about my jealousy. It’s been about your behavior – your actions.”

Her eyes moved off of him to focus on some random spot on the floor. It was a submissive action, and one he’d rarely seen in Cersei. She took a deep breath, “I believe you now that she had no part in Joffrey’s murder. More precisely, I believe _her_ – because she now has all the time in the world to rub it in my face, here, where no one would hear her confessions.”

Jaime rolled his eyes. _That_ was so hard for her to admit? Something so obvious to everyone else?! He tried to tamp down the anger in his heart, but Cersei always drew out the passionate side of him, “That’s it?! _Joffrey?!_ I could look past your accusing her, at least initially, given she fled immediately after his death. But I’m referring to everything _else_ , Cersei. All the fighting. The bounty. That _farce_ of a trial. Sending the Ironborn to raid Castle Black – a refugee camp, for Gods’ sakes!”

“It was _war,_ Jaime, there is no such thing as _unfair_ in war,” her tone was that of their father, through and through.

“A needless war that _you_ started. And fine, let’s _pretend_ for a moment that your warmongering was justified. What about _after_? When we were brought before you as prisoners of said war – a war you believed you had won – you were going to have one of us burnt alive while Sansa strangled herself trying to stop it!” he was shouting then. It still boiled his blood every time he thought of his sister stooping to the Mad King’s level of cruelty. Jaime liked to think the Mad King was singular in his depravity, that his mold was used for him and him alone.

He paced the cell, because if he didn’t, he just might put a dagger through her heart, become a kinslayer and a kingslayer both.

“You’re right, Jaime. I was mad with my thirst for revenge – a misguided notion, at that. I’ve… I realize that now.” Her voice was small when she spoke, and it stopped Jaime midstride. He searched her eyes for deceit but found none. All that was there was sadness. And if he knew anything about Cersei, it was that she _hated_ showing such emotions. She funneled despair into rage, regret into blame. She was Tywin Lannister’s daughter in that regard, but unfortunately lacking Tywin’s intelligence and sense of logic.

For the first time, Jaime realized each of Tywin’s children inherited a key part of the Old Lion. Tyrion inherited the man’s intellect for politics, ruling, and diplomacy. Jaime inherited his bravery, his ability the lead men on the battlefield. Cersei inherited his ability to mask his emotions – the ability to take weak, pesky little feelings and convert them into something more beneficial.

Perhaps, in a different lifetime, the three children of Tywin and Joanna Lannister would rule the Rock together as admirably as their father had done for years.

He heard Cersei take a deep breath, “Months in this cell, there is little to do but reflect. I realize that I failed Joffrey by not guiding him to become a king the people would respect. Not having their respect cost him his life. I cannot even fault Olenna and Littlefinger for that, even though I continue to hate them for it. And Tommen…”

His heart fluttered in time with the trembling of her voice, “I shouldn’t have interfered. The truth is the Tyrells were becoming too powerful and I wasn’t ready to relinquish control, nor did I think Tommen was ready to rule when Margaery could manipulate him so easily. I know it will mean little to you, but I honestly didn’t think he would survive long after Margaery gave birth to a son. They wanted the Crown for themselves, free from Lannister influence. For all I know the child wasn’t even Tommen’s… wouldn’t it be _poetic_ for her to lay with one of her handsome brothers just to keep Lannister blood from flowing into the next generation?” Cersei shook her head, “But I see now my actions were too extreme. Perhaps I should have left the future of the Crown and my son’s life in the Gods’ hands.”

Jaime was stunned speechless. He’d held onto this anger, this blame, for so long. He blamed her for Tommen’s death, but he’d never stopped to wonder why she took action to begin with. If anything, he’d assumed she wanted power for powers sake.

But in truth, he didn’t trust the Tyrells either. They were schemers. They were manipulative. They hid their plots behind pretty faces and sweet words, which made them particularly dangerous. And they _hated_ the Lannisters. That was well known. Mace and Tywin only allied out of mutual necessity and benefit. Tywin needed the man’s military support. Mace needed to ensure his family wouldn’t be punished by the king for their _betrayal_ – marrying Margaery to Renly Baratheon who sought to take Joffrey’s Crown for himself. Tywin got an army. Mace got a crown for his daughter.

Jaime would never tell her, but Cersei was probably right. Once Margaery birthed a son, she would be Queen Regent until that son came of age. What use would she have for Tommen, who was merely Tywin and Cersei’s puppet?

When he went silent for too long Cersei snorted, “What’s the matter, brother? Surprised to learn there is a method to my madness? I’m not Gregor Clegane; I didn’t kill for sport. You may not agree with my reasons – I look back and am not sure _I_ even agree with them – but I did _have_ my reasons.”

She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. She hung her head, and Jaime understood. For a Lannister, admitting you were wrong was akin to torture. Oddly, in this _one_ regard, Jaime was no longer sure she had been wrong. In other ways – yes. The war against the North. The way she’d let her kingdom fall into such disrepair. The crippling debt she’d taken on. The barbaric way she was going to treat her prisoners. But for inadvertently leading to Tommen’s death, perhaps she didn’t deserve the blame. She acted to protect her son from what she viewed as an imminent threat. A threat that was more than likely real. Could Jaime truly blame her for that? Had he not pushed a young, innocent boy out of a window to protect the woman he loved? Had he not killed the king he was sworn to serve because it was necessary to protect thousands of other lives? Had he not killed all of Ned Stark’s good men in a fit of rage when he learned Tyrion had been arrested by Catelyn Stark?

How much blood accumulated on his hands before he ever felt a shred of remorse?

_All of it… because you still don’t regret any deaths you dealt. Not truly._

It was sad but true. Other than Bran Stark, he couldn’t call to mind a single face of someone he wronged and truly feel _sorry_ for it. He didn’t look back on then-Jaime with pride, certainly not. But he didn’t regret that man’s violent deeds either. What he regretted was the fact that he lived without purpose, without honor. If anything, his sole purpose was fucking his sister and hiding all evidence of their affair. For two decades, _that_ was his only purpose. He was… pathetic.

Jaime didn’t want to spend another minute in this darkness that somehow cast a light on all his deficiencies and failures. He cleared his throat, “Is there anything you need, Cersei? Anything that can make you more… comfortable?”

She smiled sadly, “Your queen has been generous, under the circumstances. She is Ned Stark’s daughter, after all. I suppose I deserve her wrath for that if nothing else. Joffrey was a child, a willful child new to his crown. I did petition for Stark to be sent to the Wall, but I didn’t stop Joffrey from executing him, right in front of the poor little dove. I could have stopped him. At least, I like to think Joffrey would still have listened to me then. Or maybe I’d already failed him.”

An invisible fist squeezed Jaime’s heart. Had he not just wondered if _he_ had failed Joffrey? If he could have been a positive influence on the boy if he had bothered to care about anything other than fucking the boy’s mother? He sighed. In this, at least, he could give his sister some absolution, “Sansa doesn’t blame you for that, Cersei. She knows how Joffrey was… better than anyone.” It was a truth Jaime didn’t think Sansa would mind him sharing. She’d seen everyone try to get Joffrey under control at some point. Tyrion, Tywin, Cersei, Jaime, even the bloody Hound. Perhaps they’d all failed him when he was young, but it was easier for Jaime to believe that the boy was never right to begin with.

Cersei’s wistful smile remained, “Then she has a forgiving heart. She hasn’t yet been hardened. Given her experiences, that is quite a feat. I hope it stays that way, for your sake, brother. And for father’s sake. I may hate you both, but I still… I still love you, too.” She lifted her eyes to meet his, and it was all he could do not to look away. He didn’t know whether to believe those words, though everything else she’d said so far had seemed so genuine.

But he couldn’t believe she loved him _still_ , because he wasn’t sure what she felt for him was _ever_ love. When you love someone, you do not bend them to your will. You do not use them to your advantage. You do not take without giving something in return. Brienne taught him that. Sansa and Sandor taught him that. Tyrion and Alysane taught him that.

Anger welled up again. Was she deliberately manipulating him now? Or did she really think she loved him? Maybe she _did_ love him but didn’t know how to show it. It seemed the least likely scenario, but also the most appealing.

Her smile grew warmer. She seemed to understand his confusion and conflict, “It’s alright, Jaime. I don’t blame you. I deserve my fate. That doesn’t mean I don’t pray for mercy, but I … I deserve this.”

Jaime shook his head. This was getting to be too much. She was either lying to manipulate him, in which case she truly was a monster, or she was being honest. There was no middle ground.

If she was lying, then indeed she deserved this fate, even if he couldn’t help but pity her.

If she was being honest, then…

“You asked if there is anything I need.”

He turned his head to look at her and nodded for her to continue.

“I know I have no right to ask, Jaime, but it would give me something to look forward to, to know that I will see you again.”

It wasn’t asking much, and yet it was. Because the past hour, or however long he’d been down here, had been a dagger twisting in his gut nonstop.

Yet he knew if the situation were reversed, if he was the one sentenced to lifetime imprisonment for any or all of his countless crimes, he would want to see a familiar face every now and then. Some torchlight and conversation would be the literal and figurative bright spot of his week.

With a curt nod he left, before the dagger could be twisted again.

**Sandor**

The little wolf’s wedding was a simple affair, much like Sansa’s had been. Even if the coffers had been more robust, Sandor doubted Arya would have wanted a lavish celebration.

Their betrothal lasted only a fortnight as Addam was needed in the Twins now that the capital had been stabilized. Jaime would act as the Master of Laws while Addam was away tending to the fortress he now presided over. Currently it was being held by a group of Lannister and Stark men, but it needed its lord.

The she-wolf would travel with him and spend time at the Twins before proceeding east to the Vale, which was in no great need to have its lady. Ser Bryan had returned shortly after the war was won, and he’d proven to be a capable Lord Protector. Sandor added Ser Bryan to the very short list of men he respected, as his loyalty to Sansa had been proven time and time again – starting with him pledging the Knights of the Vale to Sansa after Petyr’s trial.

The only thing that surprised Sandor more than Arya’s sudden compulsion to marry was her choice of husband. Addam was another of the few men that Sandor respected, but he couldn’t imagine Arya ever wanting anyone with a “Ser” or “Lord” before his name. If Sandor had to guess, Addam reminded Arya of her annoyingly honorable father and brothers, and perhaps his red hair reminded her of her mother and sister. In her own way, probably without even realizing it, Arya found a mate who fit the Stark mold. Addam was a serious but warm man, easily vacillating between solemn and fun – much like Sansa.

Sandor had felt inexplicably proud when Arya asked him to escort her down the short aisle of the Red Keep’s sept. Since those present were the people Sandor considered friends, he didn’t mind. Besides, all eyes were on the bride, who wore a dove grey dress (over tight woolen breeches and black boots).

Sandor had to resist the desire to laugh when he arrived at her chambers to escort her to the sept. She had turned bright red but didn’t wither, “Take a good gander; you’ll never see me in a dress again.”

A gentleman would have complimented the beauty of the dress or the bride, but Sandor wasn’t a gentleman, and Arya was no lady. Instead he settled on, “You look like a proper she-wolf. Hope Addam knows what he’s getting himself into.”

The girl beamed proudly.

When they paused just outside the sept, it was Arya who took a moment to gather her thoughts, and Sandor couldn’t have been more shocked by what she said, “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you. For… everything. Not just what you do for Sansa but… for what you did for me. Back then.”

Sandor was speechless but knew that neither of them wanted a prolonged moment of earnest affection. He smirked, “Enough, she-wolf, or you’ll make me cry.”

“Eww… I bet you’re even uglier when you cry.”

He shrugged and went to his go-to response, “Good thing I don’t have to look at me, then.”

She yanked on his arm, “Come on, brother, let’s get this over with so we can get to the feast.”

At hearing the way she’d addressed him he was dumbstruck again and his feet refused to move. Arya turned to face him slightly with an evil grin on an impish face.

He shook his head, knowing she’d done it on purpose, “You little shit,” he murmured.

“ _Big_ shit,” she tossed back. Sandor swallowed a chuckle that even he knew was inappropriate for a princess’ wedding ceremony. He’d have to save his retorts for the reception.


	133. No Rest

**Sansa**

Sansa toiled day and night when she wasn’t otherwise occupied. She sacrificed many hours of sleep but couldn’t bring herself to care, not when her mission was so important.

She’d written and re-written the same pages over and over again. She poured over books in the library about pre-Targaryen politics in the kingdoms. She read about the past wars and skirmishes and what precisely had caused them – and how they were resolved.

In short, she was looking for all the knowledge necessary to create a guidebook.

This purpose she’d found gave her more energy than she’d felt in years. She found herself rising with the sun even if she’d only fallen asleep a few hours earlier. She found herself smiling at passersby as she walked across the Red Keep from building to building. She played with Anya when she could spare a few minutes. She laughed at Tyrion’s dirty japes. She even spoke to her husband with a gentler tone than she’d ever used.

The only thing that could threaten to dampen her spirits was Arya’s departure three days after her wedding to Addam. Sansa knew it wasn’t goodbye _forever_ , but after all the things that had forced the Stark siblings apart for so long, that fear was always present.

Arya rolled her eyes at Sansa’s tearful farewell, “I’ll be back in six months, if only to annoy Sandor.”

Sansa chuckled through her tears, “I’ll hold you to it – on both counts.” Then she took her sister aside where they wouldn’t be overheard, “Things may be very different when you’re here next, but don’t say anything – not even to Addam.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you now. I’ll write you if things are looking positive.”

“Wait – are you pregnant?!”

Sansa sighed, “No. What I’m talking about is bigger than that.”

Arya rolled her eyes again, “Whatever. You and your grand plans. After all you’ve done, your only plan should be to go to your rooms and live out the rest of your days eating, drinking, and fucking.”

Sansa couldn’t pass up the opportunity Arya had presented, “With the Old Lion or the Hound?”

“Ugh. Forget it, my idea was stupid,” Arya stuck out her tongue in disgust that wasn’t entirely feigned.

Sansa nodded at Addam who sat atop his courser, holding the reins of Arya’s white mare, “Go on then. The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back.”

Arya nodded solemnly, “Alright. Just… promise not to get yourself killed while I’m gone, okay?”

Sansa smiled, “I promise, on my honor as a Stark and as a Lannister who always pays her debts.”

Arya made the rest of her goodbyes and Sansa watched her sister ride north on the Kingsroad. It was bittersweet. She would miss her sister, of course, but she was also proud that Arya had matured. Arya had always rejected anything pertaining to being a lady, almost as a knee-jerk reaction. That Arya realized she could be a lady while also being true to herself showed how much she had wised up over the past several years. And perhaps some small part of Arya was doing it for Sansa – knowing how important it was to have someone she could trust ruling the Vale. With the Eyrie being impossible to siege, Sansa couldn’t risk putting it in the care of someone who might someday turn against her.

Still, she’d send a raven to Ser Bryan so he realized just how much education and guidance Arya would need, but also know that she was unlikely to be receptive anything conveyed in the style of a lecture.

Sansa spent the rest of the day busy with her regular duties and didn’t get to work on her plan until after the evening meal.

Unfortunately, it seemed interruptions were her destiny today, as Jaime bid entry.

Immediately she knew something was wrong. He looked pained and not at all confident in what he was intending to say. Sansa sat back and tried to look as welcoming as possible.

Eventually Jaime took a deep breath, “Your grace—”

“Wow, this must be serious,” Sansa japed.

He wasn’t amused, which meant it really _was_ serious.

“I have come to speak to you about Cersei.”

Sansa’s stomach dropped at the mention of her name, but she retained her composure, “What about her?”

“I’d like to ask you to reconsider mercy. As I’m sure you can imagine, months in the Black Cells is quite a punishment. At this point, she’s just another mouth to feed.”

“You wish to see her executed instead?”

Jaime remained stoic, “If the only two options are swift death or lifetime imprisonment, then yes, I’d choose the former.”

Sansa crossed her arms, “Yet you’re here to advocate a third option.”

Jaime nodded, “I’d ask you to consider allowing her to become a Silent Sister. Or exile her to the Iron Islands. Let her scrub the planks on Yara’s ships... I’m not asking you to give her a comfortable life, I’m merely asking that you don’t waste her life in a dungeon.”

“That’s what you’re concerned with? Waste?”

Jaime’s cheeks reddened, “I’ve spoken to Cersei a few times. I truly believe that she now sees the error of her ways. I—”

“I’ve spoken to her several times myself, and I see no evidence of this remorse you speak of. Introspection, perhaps, but not remorse.”

Jaime’s cheeks reddened, “Of course you wouldn’t. Cersei may be a prisoner, but she hasn’t lost her pride. She’d never admit to you, of all people, that she was wrong. But I’m her brother… she has opened up to me.”

Sansa’s heart was pounding with fear that had no discernible cause. The idea of Cersei being released, even if only to be a slave laborer to Yara, was concerning for obvious reasons.

Yet the idea of her death was equally concerning for unnamable reasons.

Sansa stilled her inexplicably trembling hands, “Letting her go is not an option, Jaime. Not after all she’s done. Out of respect to you I will consider the other option – a painless execution. But I’d ask you to return the favor – consider whether Cersei truly is remorseful, or if she’s telling you what you want to hear. Perhaps in the hopes that you would petition the Queen on her behalf, as you are doing now.”

Jaime looked to his feet, but she couldn’t tell if it was due to shame or disappointment. Sansa decided to change the subject. Jaime was her friend, and second only to Sandor in loyalty to her; she did not wish to humiliate him. “How is Anya?”

Jaime nodded, “She is good. She was very excited when the new dresses were delivered. I wasn’t there but she told me all about it.”

Sansa smiled, “That’s good. I’m sorry that I haven’t found anyone yet to take her. Court isn’t what it once was. And right now, few people are looking to take on _additional_ responsibility.”

“I understand. It’s… it’s not much of a burden. The nurse takes care of her. I just check in on her a couple times a day… make sure she isn’t getting lonely or confused.”

“That’s wonderful.”

Jaime snorted, “Actually, Tyrion has taken quite a liking to her. I think he wants to take her. Adopt her, I mean.”

Sansa blinked at him in surprise, “Oh? And what about you?”

“What about me?” Jaime looked up, perplexed.

“Have you thought about adopting her?”

Jaime shrugged, “I’m just a man. That isn’t proper. Tyrion has Alysane. They will wed soon.”

“Propriety means little to me. I know you would never hurt her, Jaime.”

Jaime’s brows pinched together, “I don’t understand… are you saying you _want_ me to take her?”

Sansa shrugged, “I want what is best for everyone, including Anya.”

“I’m sure what’s best for her is having a mother of some sort.”

Sansa shook her head, “What’s best is for her to have someone who loves her, whether that’s you, or Tyrion and Alysane, or someone else entirely. But don’t trouble yourself with this now, Jaime. I shouldn’t have even asked. I suppose I was just curious… you seem so good with her.”

Jaime shrugged, “It… it feels good. To have someone to care about. Other than a brother, father, and goodmother who clearly can get along very well without me,” he smirked.

Sansa offered a smile of her own as she clasped his good hand, “Don’t be so sure.”

**Tywin**

This was the last thing they needed. A distraction in the form of yet another person who _thought_ he had a claim on the throne.

At today’s small council meeting, Varys told them all about this _supposed_ Targaryen – Aegon VI, son of Rhaegar. He’d been traveling through Essos with his small group of supporters – namely Jon Connington of the Stormlands, who briefly served Aegon’s grandfather, Aerys II. His hope was to rally those in Essos still loyal to Daenerys Targaryen’s legacy, which included the few thousand Unsullied soldiers whose ships were far enough out to sea to be spared the wildfire used in the defense of Casterly Rock. If Varys’ intelligence was to be trusted, this Aegon had at one point tried to buy the Golden Company’s services, but Cersei had been the highest bidder – something Tywin was almost grateful for now.

Of course, the problem with this young man’s claim was that Aegon VI had been killed by Gregor Clegane, along with his mother and sister, during Robert’s Rebellion. Tywin had seen the bodies with his own eyes, even presenting them to Robert as a show of loyalty.

Tywin knew Varys was withholding some details, but he couldn’t be sure what they were. That’s why he found himself in the eunuch’s chambers after the meeting had concluded.

“Your grace?” Varys tipped his head.

Tywin wouldn’t mince words, “When Tyrion and his sellsword found you in Pentos, you were with Arianne Martell.”

Varys pursed his lips in confusion, “I was, your grace. I never hid this fact.”

“Why?”

“You’ll recall at the time the situation was rather bleak for you and your allies. Or rather, for Queen Sansa and her allies, which included you.”

“What did you mean to accomplish with the Martell girl?”

“I hoped to gain her trust, so that I could bring her back to Westeros once the war was over.”

“And if Cersei had won that war?”

“Then I would have stayed in Pentos, mentored young Arianne, and hoped that someday she might come in handy.”

“By taking the throne from Cersei?”

Varys shrugged, “That would have been a tall feat, with the North, West, Riverlands, and Vale forces being destroyed in such a scenario. Dorne was in no shape to make a military strike, nor the Reach.”

“So how did you expect Arianne Martell to _come in handy_?”

Varys sighed, “I didn’t, truly. But I do not give up on the realm, your grace, no matter how dire the circumstances.”

Tywin stared the man down, but the eunuch was not the least bit intimidated. “Elia Martell was Arianne’s aunt. She was also Aegon’s mother. That makes Arianne and this _Aegon_ cousins…”

“It would seem so, your grace.”

Tywin ground his jaw, “You weren’t putting faith in Arianne; you were putting faith in this man who claims to be Aegon VI.”

“Again, your grace, your cause – _our_ cause – was rather bleak at the time.”

“Fine. I see your loyalty to my wife, and I do not doubt it. But if your schemes _then_ empowered this would-be usurper _now_ , I deserve to know about it.”

Varys’ straight mouth curved downward. He looked contrite. “What do you wish to know, your grace?”

Tywin arched an eyebrow, surprised Varys hadn’t put up more of a defense, “I want to know what plans you had made with this self-proclaimed Targaryen.”

“None.”

Tywin snorted, “But you wanted to?”

“Yes. I intercepted Arianne Martell when she was sent to Essos to meet with this – as you put it – _self-proclaimed Targaryen._ The girl was brave but knew nothing of politics or… _intrigue._ I offered my services as a mentor and advisor. She was well aware that my loyalty was to you and your betrothed. For the record, she was devastated when we received word that you had been captured – that the North had fallen. But I taught her the value of a contingency plan.”

“Contingency plan? Her meeting with her cousin and tying Dorne to his cause?”

“There wasn’t much left of Dorne. More like hoping whatever was left of Westeros would rather see a Targaryen prince on the throne than… well, than Cersei.”

“Did you ever meet this young man?”

Varys shook his head.

“What is the situation in Essos? Does anyone believe his claim?”

“Few in Essos _care_ about who sits the Iron Throne in Westeros. After Daenerys’ behavior, fewer still would trust a Targaryen.”

Tywin nodded, “The Unsullied?”

“I have heard that they follow this man, but as you know firsthand, there are few Unsullied left.”

Tywin took a deep breath and asked what was likely the most significant question, “Does his claim have any validity? Is there any chance he is who he claims to be?”

“That I cannot say. Getting a prince out of Maegor’s Holdfast during the midst of battle would have been no easy feat.”

“For most men, yes; but not for one who knows this city – both above ground and below – inside and out.”

Varys frowned, “Is that an accusation, your grace?”

Tywin stared at him, “It is a question.”

Varys’ already resolute posture further straightened, “I will admit that what Gregor Clegane did to Princess Elia and her children did not sit well with me. I will admit that, given the opportunity, I _would_ have saved them. I will admit that not foreseeing their fates is something I have regretted since that fateful day. I will admit that for decades I could see no good in _you,_ that you would unleash that beast of a man on an innocent woman and her children. But no, your grace… if Aegon VI was taken out of the city that day, it was not by my doing.”

Tywin took a deep breath, “You once mentioned a hope that Daenerys would succeed in her quest.”

Varys dipped his head, “Yes; another action I regret. She was an improvement over Joffrey and Cersei – or so I thought. But I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again: I know no queen but the Queen in the North, whose name is Stark.”

Tywin snorted, “So you are loyal to my wife, but not to me.”

“Oh on the contrary, your grace, I believe you are the best man to sit the throne in generations… and not just because of the woman by your side.”

“But am I the best man you can _imagine_ sitting the throne? Or is there another – one with Targaryen blood, perhaps – that you’d prefer? If you could see Sansa on the throne with another by her side – would you?”

Varys seemed to think long and hard about the question before answering, “As long as you continue to act in the best interest of the realm, there is no other I’d see on the throne – with or without Sansa Stark by his side. You need not worry about me, your grace. Though I know you’re a smart man, and a cautious man, so you will worry about me regardless of what I say. So instead I’ll suggest you don’t spend so much time worrying about me that you become blind to other threats.”

Tywin scoffed, “What other threats? No one in the known world has the _power_ to take the throne. Even if we can’t count on the Reach and Dorne answering our call, the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, and the Iron Islands are more than enough to thwart any enemy.”

“No one in the known world had the _power_ to eradicate the Others, either. But someone did. No one had the power to kill a woman with two dragons and 100,000 soldiers, but someone did. Confidence is a weakness, your grace.”

Tywin curled his lip, “You think I need to be told that?”

“No… but I think you are a busy man and may need an occasional reminder.”

Tywin scoffed, “I needn’t be one of your concerns. Tell me, is Arianne Martell loyal to us?”

“She bent the knee.”

Tywin only stared until Varys sighed, “Arianne Martell wants to rebuild Dorne. She cannot do that while lending what little men she has to fight for this man who may or may not be Aegon VI.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It is the only answer I have, your grace.”

…

That night, Tywin dined privately with his wife and sons. He wanted to share all he learned from Varys. In the past he’d have kept such knowledge to himself, but there was no need for secrecy – not in this matter, certainly.

After hearing the news Tyrion swirled the wine in his goblet, “I cannot fault our Master of Whispers for putting his faith in Daenerys or even this Aegon fellow, given who was on the throne at the time. Even after Tommen was coronated, everyone knew how much influence Cersei had. And once Cersei was on the throne?” Tyrion shook his head before continuing in a slightly different vein, “You sent me to Pentos as a “last hope” – did you not? If our side had lost… if Cersei had prevailed… I’d have thrown my support behind this Targaryen prince, too, being as he would likely be the only one who could challenge Cersei. I wouldn’t even care whether his claim was true.”

“It can’t be true,” Sansa stated unequivocally.

“Pardon?” Tywin asked.

“The largest dragon is alive. The wound from my shortsword would not have killed him. If there was another Targaryen somewhere, he’d have made his way to him.”

Tyrion’s eyes lit up, “Yes… a dragon will seek a Targaryen rider. After Daenerys’ death, he’d have found his way to Prince Aegon, if it really was Aegon.”

“What if the beast _is_ dead? I mean, where is the damned thing?” Jaime asked.

Tywin cursed himself for never thinking of the dragon before. Of course, there was plenty of distraction, but how had _no one_ stopped to wonder where a large, fire-breathing dragon had gone?

“He was flying due west when I… jumped off,” Sansa blushed.

“There is nothing west of Casterly Rock,” Jaime scoffed.

Tyrion shrugged, “Not that we _know_ of. Perhaps there are islands. Perhaps there are entire continents.” Tyrion’s eyes lit up with excitement at the prospect.

Tywin sighed, “This isn’t productive. The beast may be dead, even if not from Sansa’s sword. Perhaps it flew so far it tired itself out and drowned in the sea. But if it is alive, the fact that it hasn’t found this Aegon character is a good indication that his claim is false.”

“So what do we do, Father?” Jaime asked.

“For now, nothing. If he assembles a force to take the throne, we squash it before it reached Westeros. We have the fleet – the part of Euron Greyjoy’s fleet that was given to Lady Shireen and Lord Manderly. Not to mention Yara Greyjoy has sworn she will come to our aid, if called upon.”

“Should we send someone to Essos to monitor the situation? Or perhaps even to meet with this so-called Prince?” Tyrion asked.

Tywin shook his head, “Meeting with him would only lend credence to his claim. But we do need someone there… someone other than Lord Varys’ spies… someone we _trust_ implicitly.”

Sansa shook her head, “Arya would be perfect. She knows Essos, and she knows how to be unseen. And I think we all trust her. But I’d hate to take her from the Vale before she’s even gotten there. I fear if we send her on an _adventure,_ she may never wish to return to the humdrum of castle life.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Tywin wouldn’t admit it, but he was glad to see the match between his most loyal man and Sansa’s sister. It would bring stability to the Riverlands, the region worst hit by the Five Kings War, and ensure the people of the Vale remained loyal to Sansa and Tywin.

Tyrion was drinking his wine thoughtfully when his mouth spread into a lopsided grin, “I happen to know a dark-skinned fellow who would blend in, who is capable, stealthy, and ever-loyal to House Lannister… er, _our purses_ , at least.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, “You mean to send Bronn? To be a spy?”

Tyrion grinned, “Why not? He did rather enjoy the local _culture_ during our brief visit.”

“The man has proven himself useful,” Tywin agreed, ignoring Tyrion’s allusion to the man’s sexual proclivities, “He has done some reconnaissance work for me in the past.”

By the time they’d finished dessert, Bronn swaggered in. The guards found him in a winesink, by the look of things.

Bronn offered a lopsided grin, “An audience with the King and Queen, the Hand, and the Master Commander… this can mean nothing good.”

Tyrion grinned back, “I seem to recall you complaining about how much you would miss Essosi _soil.”_

Bronn raised a brow, “It wasn’t the soil it was the cu-” he looked at Sansa and smiled, “the _culture_.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “While I doubt the _culture_ misses _you_ , you’re about to be reunited nonetheless.”

Bronn shrugged, “Who do I need to kill?”

The jest wasn’t the worst idea, Tywin had to admit. If Bronn could get close enough to kill this imposter, it would save them some trouble in the future.

Sansa seemed to read his mind, as she peered at him – the very picture of the scolding wife though Tywin wasn’t sure she had earned that right. Nonetheless he sighed, “No one… _yet…”_ He punctuated the last word with a raised eyebrow and glare at his wife.


End file.
